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Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microraproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  historiquas 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibllographlques 


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plaire qui  sont  peut-dtre  unk^ues  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique.  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  nradifk»tion  dans  la  metho- 
ds normale  de  filmage  sont  indk)u6s  ci-dessous. 

[_J  Cotoured  pages  /  Pages  de  couleur 

I I  Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommagtes 


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Comprend  du  matdri      j :;.  :^r  antaire 

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partiellement  obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une 
pelure,  etc.,  ont  6\6  film^es  k  nouveau  de  fa9on  k 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 

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colorations  variables  ou  des  decolorations  sont 
film^es  deux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la  meilleure  image 
possible. 


This  Kern  is  lilmtd  at  tha  raductlon  ratio  chackad  balow  / 

Ca  documant  aat  lUmi  au  taux  da  rMuction  indiqu4  cl-dassous. 


lOx 

14x 

18x 

22x 

26x 

30x 

. 

J 

1 

12x 

16x 

20x 

- 

24x 

28x 

32x 

Th«  copy  film«d  h«r*  hM  baan  raproducad  thanks 
to  tha  ganaroaity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


Tha  imagaa  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  baat  quality 
possibia  considaring  tha  condition  and  iagibillty 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  apacif icationa. 


Original  capias  in  printad  papar  covara  ara  fllmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  anding  on 
tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
sion.  or  tha  back  covar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copiaa  ara  filmad  baginning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
sion,  and  anding  on  tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illuatratad  impraasion. 


Tha  last  racordad  frama  on  aach  microficha 
ahall  contain  tha  symbol  — »■  (moaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  symbol  ▼  (moaning  "END"). 
whichavar  appliaa. 

Mapa,  platas,  charts,  ate,  may  ba  filmad  at 
diffarant  raduetion  ratios.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraly  included  in  ona  axposura  ara  filmad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  eornar.  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bonom,  as  many  framas  as 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrams  illustrata  tha 
mathod: 


1 

2 

4 

5 

L'«x«mpiair«  film*  fut  raproduit  gric*  i  la 
ginirosit*  da: 

Bibliotheque  natlonale  du  Canada 


Laa  imagaa  luivantaa  ont  it*  raproduitas  avac  la 
plua  grand  aoin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nanatA  da  I'axamplaira  film*,  at  an 
eonformita  avac  laa  conditiona  du  contrat  da 
filmaga. 

Laa  axamplairaa  originaux  dont  la  couvartura  an 
paplar  aat  ImprimAa  aont  fllmaa  an  commandant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  la 
darniira  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  eu  d'illuatration,  aoit  par  la  tacond 
plat,  aalon  la  eaa.  Toua  laa  autraa  axamplairas 
originaux  sent  fllmia  an  commandant  par  la 
pramiira  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'illuatration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darniira  paga  qui  comporta  una  talla 
amprainta. 

Un  daa  aymbolaa  auivanta  apparaitra  aur  la 
darniira  imaga  da  chaqua  microficha.  salon  la 
cas:  la  aymbola  ^  signifia  "A  SUIVRE",  la 
aymbola  ▼  aignifia  "FIN". 

Laa  cartaa,  planchaa.  tablaaux,  ate.  pauvant  itra 
fiimte  k  daa  taux  da  reduction  diffarantt. 
Lorsqua  la  documant  aat  trop  grand  pour  Atra 
raproduit  an  un  saul  clichi.  il  aat  filma  *  partir 
da  I'angla  supiriaur  gaucha,  da  gaucha  i  droita. 
at  da  haut  an  baa,  an  pranant  la  nombra 
d'imagaa  nicaaaaira.  Laa  diagrammos  tuivants 
illuatrant  la  mathoda. 


2 

3 

5 

6 

MICROCOPY   RBOWTiON  TBT  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHA^T  No.  2) 


^  /APPLIED  IIVHGE    Inc 

SV  '653   east   Main   Street 

S\SS  Rochester.   New  York        14609       USA 

•■^S  (716)    482  -  0300  -  Phone 

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THE  OTHER  HOUSE 


c 


The  Other  House 


A  TRUE  STORY   OF  THE  MODERN 
MORMON   POLYGAMY 


Martha  Anderson 
Harvey  J.  O'Higgins 


THE  C.   M.   CLARK    PUBUSHINO  COMPANY 
BOSTON,   MASS. 


hi- 


Copyrig^  1911  bf  Uw  Buttflriek  PublUuiif  Co. 


Copyrighl  1918  bj 

Tte  a  M .  Clark  Publialung  Comptoy 

BMtoa,  Htm. 


NOTE 


In  MormoBdom  th*  wItm  and  efaUdrtB  of  plaral 
Bwrlftg*  My,  •«  Hfl  it  over  at  the  other  hoate",  when  the 
hoebend  Md  fftthcr  U  Abiding  for  "n  week"  or  "a  dej 
•boat"— ncoordiog  to  whnterer  m$j  be  hie  domeatle 
method  end  dlseipUne--et  the  home  of  hie  other  wife  end 
her  funily.  And  that  phraee— ••  The  Other  Hooie  "-^im 
become  meet  ainisterly  algniflcant  of  all  the  eraeltiea  and 
myeteriee  and  ailent  deapaira  of  the  new  Mormon  polyg- 
amy, now  criminally  recmdeeeent. 

When  Hanrey  J.  O'Higgina  waa  in  Utah  working  with 
ez-8enator  Frank  J.  Cannon  on  Senator  Cannon'a  ezpoeare 
of  the  ahamef  ol  conditiona  in  the  Mormon  Kingdom— aince 
published  nnder  the  title  "Under  the  Prophet  In  Utah"— 
he  obtained  from  Martha  Anderson  the  materials  for  thla 
atory  of  her  personal  experience  with  «new"  polygamy. 
Martha  Andcrrson  is  an  orthodox  Mormon  woman.  In 
order  to  protect  her  and  other  innocent  persons  from  the 
conseqnencea  of  pabllcity,  proper  names  hare  l>een  changed 
in  her  narrative,  descriptions  of  places  have  been  altered 
and  some  recognizable  details  of  character  and  circam- 
stance  have  been  dlsgnlsed  l)eyondany  possibility  of  pablic 
indentlflcation ;  but  the  essential  facts  have  been  in  no 
way  falsified,  and  the  truth  al>ont  the  present-da*  condi- 
tions in  Utah  have  been  presented  as  faithfully  as  possible 
in  typical  incidents  personally  observMl. 


THE  liBST  Vnb'E 


Thbrb  are  straight,  broad  streets 
in  Salt  Lake  City  —  the  Mormon  "Zion" 
and  they  are  pleasant  with  shade-trees 
and  little  gutter  streanu'  of  clear  mountain 
water  that  refresh  the  eye  on  dusty  Sum- 
mer days  and  make  a  cool  murmur  in  the 
heat.  Under  the  trees  of  one  of  the 
quietest  and  pleasantest  of  those  streets, 
on  a  green  Ipwn,  stands  a  cottage  home — 
such  a  home  as  you  m  see  almost  any- 
where in  America — no*,  iarge  or  preten- 
tious, but  pretty,  neat,  homelike,  with 
vines  cL':Vc)ing  t-if;  porch,  and  flowers 
brightenmg  the  pathway. 

Often,  in  the  afternoons,  a  woman  sits 
reading  on  the  porch.  She  can  raise  her 
eyes  and  se^  the    mountains,  high  and 

1 


t  The  Other  House 

brown,  against  the  Summer  blue  of  the 
eastern  sky.  She  can  see  the  cleft  of  the 
ca&on  —  Emigration  CaSon  —  through 
whose  rocky  gorge  her  father  came, 
with  a  wagon  train  of  pioneers,  into 
the  grassy  slopes  of  the  huge  valley.  She 
can  see,  far  in  the  west,  the  waters  of  the 
Great  Salt  Lake  gleaming  under  a  moist 
haze  of  sunlight.  She  can  see,  near  at 
hand,  among  the  tree-tops,  the  six  gray 
spires  of  the  Mormon  Temple  that  flies 
the  angel  Moroni  on  its  highest  finial,  on  a 
gilded  ball,  to  trumpet  the  gospel  of  the 
Saints  to  all  the  world. 

But  if  she  looks  up  from  her  book  at 
any  of  these  —  to  rest  her  sight  —  she 
gazes  listlessly,  with  reluctant  eyes,  as  if 
she  were  unwilling  to  return  to  her  own 
life  from  the  fictions  to  which  she  has 
escaped.  If  she  turns  her  head  to  watch 
her  Uttle  children  playing  on  the  lawn, 
she  regards  them  with  a  sort  of  sorrowful 
tenderness,  brooding  and  sweet,  but  with 
a  pity  in  her  love.     Her  face  is  delicate. 


The  Other  House  8 

refined,  full  of  a  charm  of  beauty  that 
has  been  spiritualized  by  suffering.  Her 
shoulders,  almost  girlishly  small  and 
slender,  are  already  a  little  bowed. 

Do  you  picture  all  Mormon  women  as 
crude  and  ignorant?  I  have  many  friends 
"  out  on  the  world,"  as  we  say  in  Utah, 
but  this  young  Mormon  mother  —  my 
friend  Ruth  —  is  the  equal  in  intellect,  in 
education,  in  refinement,  of  any  woman  I 
ever  knew.  She  seemed  bom  to  be  happy 
and  to  make  others  so.  Yet  now  she 
lives,  exquisitely  miserable,  in  the  pain  of 
a  tragic  sorrow  from  which  there  is  no 
escape  for  her,  for  her  children,  or  for  her 
husband,  through  whom  it  came. 

There  have  been  many  such  tragedies 
in  Utah,  but  I  have  not  known  them  as  I 
know  hers.  She  hid  it,  even  from  me, 
for  many  years,  though  we  have  been 
like  sisters  to  each  other  since  early  girl- 
hood. Her  womanly  reserve  and  her 
loyalty  to  her  husband  kept  it  concealed. 
When  at  last  her  misery  broke  down  all 


4  The  Other  House 

restraints — ^forcing  an  outlet,  to  find  the 
sympathy  of  friendship — ^I  shared  her 
silence,  too,  as  I  shared  her  sorrow.  I 
should  not  reveal  her  secret  now — even 
under  the  cover  of  fictitious  names  — 
except  with  her  permission.  She  has 
said:  "Some  other  woman  —  perhaps 
one  of  my  own  little  girls  —  may  be 
saved  from  such  unhappiness  by  hearing 
of  mine.  It  may  do  some  good.  For  a 
long  time  it  seemed  the  right  course —  the 
only  possible  course — ^for  me  to  hide  it. 
But  this  thing  thrives  on  secrecy.  The 
wrongdoers  are  silent  from  policy;  the 
victims  from  pride,  from  loyalty.  Yes, 
teUit!    Tellitr 


I  have  known  Ruth  for  twenty  years. 
We  were  students  together  at  our  State 
university.  I  wish  I  could  make  you 
see  her  as  she  was  then  —  attractive  and 
lovable,  intelligert  and  with  manners 
and  accomplishments  somewhat  unusual 
among  Mormon  girls  of  that  day.    Her 


The  Other  House 


mother  had  been  well  educated,  had  left 
a  home  of  luxury  and  refinement  "for 
the  gospel's  sake,"  and  through  all  the 
hard  work  and  harsh  environment  of 
early  days  had  kept  the  speech  and  man- 
ners of  a  gentlewoman.  The  music,  the 
conversation,  and  the  books  of  their 
home  made  the  hours  I  spent  there  some 
of  the  most  delightful  of  my  life.  To- 
gether Ruth  and  I  read  old  tales  of  chiv- 
alry and  romance,  the  novels  of  Scott,  of 
Dickens  and  Dumas.  With  all  the  fervor 
of  sentimental  and  sensitive  girlhood  we 
thrilled  and  glowed  with  them.  Fiction 
was  not  very  favorably  regarded  in  the 
strictly  orthodox  Mormon  house.  That, 
perhaps,  lent  a  not  unpleasant  dash  of 
adventure  to  the  reading. 

With  all  her  romance  and  sentiment 
Ruth  was  never  a  melancholy  girl.  She 
was  happy,  affectionate  and  trustful. 
She  never  seemed  to  doubt  that  she  would 
find  in  others  the  same  gentle  sentiments 
that  warmed  her  own  heart. 


The  Other  House 


It  was  during  our  university  course 
that  she  met  George  Easton.  £very> 
body  liked  him — ^the  teachers  for  his 
strong  mind  and  earnest  work,  his  fellow 
students  for  his  frankness,  his  enthusiasm 
and  his  genial  good  nature.  The  at- 
traction between  Ruth  and  him  was  al- 
most the  miracle  of  love  at  first  sight.  He 
was  so  ardent  and  impetuous  that  their 
engagement  followed  in  a  few  months. 
My  memory  of  them,  as  sweethearts,  is 
altogether  dear  and  beautiful.  They 
seemed  to  me  to  live  in  a  golden  mist  of 
happiness  that  hid  from  them  every  cruel, 
sordid,  unlovely  thing  in  the  world. 

They  were  married  in  the  Autumn — 
not  merely  "until  death  shall  part,'*  but 
forever,  through  all  eternity,  in  accord- 
ance with  our  Mormon  faith.  They 
were  not  wordly-wise.  They  began  their 
wedded  life  with  a  very  modest  endow- 
ment of  this  world's  goods.  But  Ruth's 
confidence  in  the  ability  of  her  young 
husband  was  beautiful  to  see — as  beauti- 


The  Other  House 


ful  as  his  faith  that,  with  her  inspiration, 
he  could  achieve  any  fortune  that  would 
make  her  happy. 

She  had  confessed  to  me  an  aversion 
for — a  dread  of — the  peculiar  system  of 
marriage  among  the  Saints.  She  had 
confessed  it  at  first  half  fearfully,  for  an 
open  avowal  of  such  a  feeling  would 
have  marked  her  as  one  on  the  roar'  to 
apostasy,  but  I  felt  as  she  did  about  it, 
and  because  of  this  similarity  of  senti- 
ment we  held  many  discussions  on  the 
subject.  There  was  tragedy  in  the  lives 
of  many  women  about  us.  We  glimpsed 
it  often,  though  the  policy  of  our  people 
was  to  keep  such  things  discreetly  hidden. 
Under  the  surface  serenity  there  was  a 
threat  that  we  feared  m^ght  sometime 
strike  our  own  lives  and  make  havoc  of 
all  our  girlish  dreams — dreams  in  which 
polgamy  had  no  place. 

But  i  1 1890,  just  about  a  month  beff 
Ruth's  marriage,  there  was  given  out,  *. 
the  semi-annual  conference  of  the  Saints, 


8 


The  Other  House 


a  message  from  our  Piesiaent  embodying 
"  a  revelation  ftom  God  for  the  guidance 
of  His  people."  It  was  in  effect  a  mani- 
fes^o  prohibiting  further  polygamous  mar- 
riages and  even  forbidding  the  further 
continuance  of  former  polygamous  re- 
lations. That  manifesto  lifted  a  burden 
of  fear  from  Ruth  and  me  and  thousands 
of  our  sisters.  We  drew  the  freest  breath 
we  had  ever  known.  Ruth's  happiness 
was  complete.  "I  have  always  hated  it," 
she  said  "and  yet  I  feared  sometimes  that 
I  might  be  wicked  for  doing  so.  Now 
surely  it  isn't  wrong  to  hate  it,  since  God 
Himself  has  forbidden  it." 

To  be  sure,  there  were  whispers,  among 
the  older  brethren,  that  the  manifesto 
had  been  given  out  merely  to  appease  the 
wrath  and  blind  the  eyes  of  the  G'/itiles, 
and  that,  in  the  due  time  of  the  Lord, 
polygamy  would  be  restored.  But  "the 
sisters"  all  believed  that  a  merciful  Father 
had  heard  their  cries  of  anguish  and  had 
taken  pity  on  them. 


The  Other  House 


After  her  marriage,  Ruth,  in  her  little 
home,  took  on  a  quaint  and  charming 
assumption  of  matronly  dignity.  Her 
pride  and  cor£dence  in  her  husband  were 
sweet  to  see  Her  whole  life  seemed  set 
on  the  resoive  to  be  a  perfect  wife  and 
helpmate  to  the  man  she  loved.  For 
three  months  I  saw  their  happiness  com- 
plete and  perfect.  Then,  suddenly,  with- 
out warning,  from  a  clear  sky,  there 
came  a  call  to  George  to  go  on  a  mission 
to  England  to  preach  the  gospel. 

Such  I  call  is  always  phrased  as  a  re- 
quest, but  to  the  faithful  Saints  it  comes 
as  a  command.  We  are  taught  that  the 
gospel  must  J)e  preached  to  every  kindred, 
tongue  and  people,  so  that  all  the  honest 
in  heart  may  be  gathered  to  Zion.  Mor- 
mon girls  relinquish  their  sweethearts, 
MormoB  mothers  give  their  sons,  and 
Mormon  wives  yield  their  husbands  that 
the  great  work  may  be  carried  on. 

At  first  the  distress  of  the  young  couple 
was  pitiful.    The  long  separation  of  two 


10 


The  Other  House. 


years  seemed  so  cruel!  It  stretched  be- 
fore them  like  two  centuries.  But  the 
habit  of  obedience  to  authority  was  strong; 
it  was  their  duty  to  make  this  sacrifice 
for  their  religion;  they  prepared  to  make 
it  as  bravely  and  patiently  as  they  could. 

I  wondered  at  their  courage.  That 
wonder  grew  when,  seven  months  after 
George's  departure,  their  child,  a  boy,waa 
bom.  In  those  months  of  waiting,  and 
in  her  final  hours  of  agony,  Ruth  showed 
a  heroism  of  soul  of  which  even  I  had 
hardly  believed  her  capable.  I  could  see 
that  every  day,  and  every  hour  of  every 
day,  she  yearned  for  her  husband  in  her 
suffering;  and  when  the  pain  was  ended, 
and  there  came  that  moment  of  ecstasy 
when  she  held  her  son — their  little  son — 
on  her  breast,  I  knew  how  she  longed  to 
look  into  her  husband's  eyes  and  see  them 
shining  with  joy  and  pride  and  tenderness. 

The  boy  was  a  healthy,  beautiful  child, 
and  Ruth  lived  for  the  day  when  his 
father  should  see  him  and  rejoice  in  him 


The  Other  House 


11 


as  she  did.  The  months  passed.  At  l&st 
George  was  honorably  released.  I  saw 
him  united  to  his  wife  and  his  son.  I 
thought  of  them  now  as  happy  for  life. 

Soon  afterward  I  left  Salt  Lake,  but 
Ruth  and  I  exchanged  letters  occasionally 
and  hers  were  always  bubbling  over  with 
joy.  George  was  as  dear  as  ever.  The 
boy  grew  and  thrived,  and  said  and  did 
so  many  wonderful  things!  One  letter 
brought  news  of  the  arrival  of  a  little 
daughter  and  told  me  that  they  had  made 
her  my  namesake.  George  wrote  that 
she  was  a  miniature  of  her  mother. 
"And  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  is  the 
loveliest  thing  I  could  say  of  her."  Other 
children  came  to  them.  I  heard  of  these  as 
always  welcome  to  that  happy  circle,  and 
always  bringing  love  and  joy  with  them 
into  the  world. 

Then  there  came  a  long  break  in  our 
correspondence.  When  Ruth  wrote  again 
I  was  disappointed  by  the  tone  of  her 
letter.    There  was  some  change  in  her — 


12 


The  Oiher  House 


indefinable  but  evident.  It  was  as  if 
the  warmth  and  brightness  had  gone  out 
of  her  affection,  like  the  sunlight  from  a 
landscape,  leaving  all  the  colors  dull  and 
lifeless.  I  feared  that  she  had  grown 
away  from  our  friendship. 

When  circumstances  brought  us  to- 
gether again  I  was  glad,  for  I  hoped  to  re- 
sume our  old  intimacy.  But  I  found  a 
different  Ruth.  Her  feeling  for  me 
seemed  unchanged  and  her  welcome  was 
affectionate,  but  all  her  sparkle  of  ani- 
mation was  gone.  She  was  quiet  and 
listless.  Only  when  her  children  were 
near  her  or  when  she  spoke  of  them  did  I 
see  any  of  the  gladness  of  her  old  spirit. 

Often  I  thought  she  seemed  anxious 
to  tell  me  something — to  open  her  heart 
to  me — then  she  would  suddenly  draw 
back  into  a  gentle  but  inpenetrabl ;  re- 
serve. One  afternoon  I  found  her  looking 
pale  and  ill,  but  almost  feverishly  ani- 
mated. She  proposed  one  of  our  long 
walks  into  the  hills,  and  as  we  went  along 


The  Other  House 


18 


she  talked  rapidly  and  disconnectedly, 
rushing  from  one  subject  to  another.  It 
worried  me. 

We  reached  the  base  of  the  mountains 
and  sat  down  to  rest  in  a  spot  that  had 
been  one  of  our  favorite  retreats.  From 
that  point  the  whole  valley  was  spread 
before  us.  Just  below  us,  the  army  post — 
Fort  Douglas — was  set  out  among  its 
trees,  in  the  half  circle  of  the  officer's 
homes,  the  long  barracks,  the  church,  and 
the  little  cemetery,  with  its  ranks  of 
quiet  graves  on  the  hillside.  Farther 
down,  the  city  seemed  to  rest  after  the 
day,  to  enjoy  the  coming  of  the  evening. 
Far  in  the  west,  beyond  the  shining  lake 
and  the  blurred  blue  mountains,  the  sun 
was  setting  in  a  blaze  of  flame. 

I  was  thinking  of  the  days  when  we 
used  to  come  there  to  read,  and  talk,  and 
dream  our  wistful  girlish  dreams.  The 
sunset  gun  boomed  into  the  silence,  and 
the  clear  notes  of  "The  Star  Spangled 
Banner'*  rose  to  us  from  the  army  post. 


14 


The  Other  Houte 


Old  Glory  came  fluttering  slowly  down 
the  flagpole.  And  there  was  something 
in  the  music  and  the  sight  of  that  great 
flag  that  brought  a  sudden  pain  to  my 
heait  and  the  quick  tears  to  my  eyes.  I 
found  Ruth's  hand  and  held  it.  At  my 
touch,  she  burst  into  weeping. 

"Oh,  Martie."  she  sobbed,  "I  can't—  I 
can't  stand  it  any  longer!  I  must  tell 
some  one  or  my  heart  will  break.  I  don't 
want  to  be  disloyal  to  him — to  George — 
but  oh!  I  can't  even  talk  t'^  him  about 
it.    I 

**  Do  you  remember — when  we  used  to 
come  here — ^there  was  only  one  thing  in 
the  world  that  I  feared.  And  before  I 
was  married  that  was — stopped.  Po- 
lygamy! 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  disloyal  to  him, 
Martie.  He's  a  good  man  and  I  love  him 
as  deeply  as  I  ever  did.  It's  the  system 
that  has  wrecked  him — and  me — and  the 
other  woman  too,  I  suppose,  though  I 
can't  think  of  her;  I'm  too  full  of  my  own 
bitterness. 


The  Other  Home 


U 


"  I've  never  been  able  to  talk  about  it 
—to  any  one.    Every  other  trouble  or 
worry  I  could  carry  to  him — ^but  not  this. 
Even  he  can't  help  me.  " 
She  was  talking  ii\  a  strained,  dead  tone, 
her  hands  clinging  together  in  her  lap, 
controlling  herself  in  a  rigidity  of  body 
that  was  more  agonized  than  a  writhing. 
Whenever  her  voice  choked,  she  waited 
stiffly  till  she  could  go  on  again;  and  she 
did  not  even  raise  her  hand  to  wipe  the 
tears  from  her  cheelis. 

*  You  know  how  happy  our  marriage 
was.  You  know  wt  tried  not  to  be  selfish 
about  it.  The  two  years  of  George's 
mission  meant  a  great  sacrifice  for  us, 
but  we  made  it.  We  ma  -e  it  as  willingly 
and  cheerfully  as  ws  could.  When  the 
little  ones  came  we  received  them  as  sent 
from  God,  and  resolved  to  try  to  better  the 
world  through  oui  lives  and  theirs.  And 
I  felt  that,  so  long  as  we  didn't  grow  sel- 
fish or  careless  of  our  duty  toward  others 
there  wasn't  anything  displeasing  to  Him 
m  our  being  so  happy. 


16 


The  Other  House 


« 


You  know  George  has  always  been 
zealous  in  church  work,  and  I  was  glad 
when  they  made  him  a  bishop,  because 
it  showed  they  recognized  his  ability  and 
his  usefulness.  I  didn't  complain  when 
the  new  work  took  so  much  of  his  time — 
though  he  had  to  be  out  so  often  in  the 
evenings  attending  meetings  and  church 
duties;  and  often  he  would  be  away  for 
three  or  four  days  at  a  time  doing  church 
work  in  other  parts  of  the  State. 

"One  evening  he  came  home  from  a 
meeting  that  had  been  called  by  some  of 
the  high  church  dignitaries.  He  looked 
tired  and  worried,  and  when  I  tried  to 
cheer  him  up  he  became  irritable  and 
more  gloomy  than  ever.  You  know  how 
frank  he  is,  naturally.  We  had  never  had 
secrets  from  each  other.  Our  talking 
together  was  like  thinking  out  loud.  I 
knew,  that  night,  that  something  had 
come  between  us. 

**  In  a  few  days,  he  told  me.  At  the 
meeting,  he  and  a  few  other  young  men — 


The  Other  House 


17 


men  in  responsible  positions — had  had  a 
restoration  of  polygamy  suggested  to 
them.     It  was  done  cautiously,  but 

"  Brother  R said  that  God  is  the 

same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever.  He 
said  that  the  principles  of  God's  truth  are 
changeless  and  eternal  too —  that  the 
principle  of  celestial  or  plural  marriage 
was  as  true  to-day  as  ever  it  had  been. 

And  he  was  followed  by  Brother  S , 

who  declared  that  the  Lord  would  restore 
polygamy  and  open  up  a  way  for  His 
people  to  practise  it — and  there  would 
then  be  an  opportunity  for  the  young  men 
assembled,  and  others,  to  live  that  part 
of  their  religion — and  while  it  wouldn't 
be  compulsory,  any  one  rejecting  it 
would  stand  responsible  at  the  judgment- 
seat  for  failing  in  his  duty.  You  can 
imagine 

"  You  know  the  arguments  they  would 
use,  and  the  way  they  would  play  on  the 
ambitions  of  some  of  them  with  the  idea 
of  reaching  high  positions  in  the  church, 


18 


The  Other  House 


— and  on  the  faith  of  the  religious  ones, 
with  the  promise  of  exaltation  in  the 
world  to  come.  They  didn't  say  uhen 
it  was  to  return.  They  left  that  indefi- 
nite. But  George  was  worried*  and  I 
i'elt  the  old  terror  clutch  at  my  heart. 
I  couldn't  hide  my  fear  from  him,  and  he 
tried  to  reassure  me — and  himself.  H^ 
held  me  in  his  arms  and  told  me  over  and 
over  again  that  I  was  the  only  wife  he 
wanted  in  this  world  or  in  eternity.  And 
I  tried  to  believe  it — and  forget  about  it — 
but  I  couldn't. 

"  There  were  other  meetings,  and  long 
talks  with  some  of  the  older  brethren. 
You  know  George  isn't  weak,  but  he's 
devoted  to  the  church.  He  believes  that 
its  leaders  are  representatives  of  God  on 
earth — that  they  hold  their  positions  by 
authority  from  Him — and  speak  by  in- 
spiration and  revelation. 

"One  day  he  said:  *I  have  never  ex- 
pected to  live  in  polygamy.  I  was  born 
of  polygamous  marrige.    And    I    have 


The  Other  House 


19 


believed  in  the  principle,  though  I  thought 
the  correct  practise  of  it  too  severe  for 
weak  human  nature.  .  .  IVe  never  loved 
any  other  woman,  Ruth.  I  never  shall. 
.  .  .  But  sometimes  we  must  sacrifice 
our  feelings  for  our  convictions.  If  this 
principle  of  plural  marriage  were  restored 
and  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  enter  it,  would  you 
be  able  to  give  your  consent?* 

**  My  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating.    I 
couldn't    answer.    I    began    to    cry.    I 
broke  down.    He  didn't  say  anything 
more — then. 

**  But  later  he  brought  up  all  those  old 
arguments  you  know  so  well — that  it 
purified  our  souls  of  selfishness;  that  it 
gave  to  the  many  sp'-rits  anxiously  await- 
ing entrance  to  this  world  a  chance  to 
come  here  and  do  their  work  in  this  stage 
of  their  existence.  I  tried  to  oppose  these 
with  arguments  of  my  own.  that  not 
only  might  it  destroy  selfishness  ^ii  women 
but  even  the  women  themselves.  I  told 
him  that  women  were  said  to  be  more 


20 


The  Other  House 


spiritual  and  less  selfish  than  men  and 
that  polygamy  made  men  more  gross 
and  selfish  and  despotic.  But,  after  all,  I 
couldn't  argue  much.  I  didn't  think 
about  polygamy;  I/eft  about  it.  It  was 
revolting  to  something  deep  down  in  my 
nature — ^not  just  jealousy — something  less 
selfish  than  that. 

"I  know  you'll  hardly  belive  that,  with 
all  my  old  horror  of  it,  there  came  a  time 
when  consent  was  wrung  from  me — I 
can't  tell  you  how.  I  don't  know  myself. 
I  suppose  every  woman,  if  she's  emotional 
and  religious,  n  ill  make  a  martyr  of  her- 
self. Hindu  women  throw  themselves  on 
their  husband's  funeral  pyres;  and  we 
Mormon  women  consent  to  our  h  osbands 
taking  other  wives. 

"  The  final  argument,  with  me,  was 
that  his  conscience  might  sometime  de- 
mand the  sacrifice  of  us  both  and  that  his 
usefulness  and  goodness  in  this  world  and 
his  exaltation  in  heaven  might  depend 
upon  it.    I  was  worn  out  with  discus- 


The  Other  House 


n 


sions.  I  believed  that  it  was  a  matter  of 
conviction  with  Georgxi.  I  thought  the 
opportunity  so  remote  that  it  might  never 
come  at  all.  And  at  last  I  said  that,  if 
it  did  come,  and  he  thought  it  a  duty  to 
enter  polygamy,  I  would  not  oppose  him. 

"From  that  moment  I've  never  been 
happy.  I  was  like  a  prisoner  condemned 
to  death,  but  hoping  always  for  a  reprieve. 
I  had  been  trustful;  fear  made  me  sus- 
picious.    We  both  grew  reserved. 

"  George  made  a  trip  to  Mexico  to  visit 
some  church  conferences  in  our  colonies 
there.  When  he  came  back,  I  knew  by 
his  manner  that— I  asked  him.  He  ad- 
mitted it.  He  had  done  it  by  the  advice 
of  his  superiors  in  the  priesthood.  He 
said  he  thought  it  would  be  easier  for  me 
if  I  didn't  kno     till  afterwards. 

"While  h  as  away  I  had  gone  to 
sleep  every  m^at  with  a  prayer  for  him 
on  my  iips  —  and  with  my  arm  reaching 
to  the  pillow  where  his  dear  iicdd  always 
rested.  .  .  .  And  while  I  had  longed  for 


i 


9,9, 


The  Other  House 


the  sound  of  his  voice,  he  had  made  mar- 
riage vows  tc  mother  woman!  And  while 
I  longed  for  his  caresses,  she  had  been  in 
his  arms! 

"I  asked  her  name.  It  was  Esther 
Woodward.  You  remember  her?  She's 
almost  my  age,  but  she  looks  younger  and 
fresher  than  I  do  because  she*s  been  free 
from  care  and  illness.  She's  handsome 
and  attractive.  I  used  to  like  her,  but 
in  that  moment  I  hated  her.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  ever  hated  any  creature. 
I  almost  hated  my  husband.  I  complete- 
ly hated  the  system  that  had  robbed  me 
of  what  was  dearest  to  me  in  all  the  world. 
I  don't  know  what  I  said.  I  was  half 
crazy. 

"He  tried  to  soothe  me.  I  couldn't  let 
him  touch  me.  I  threw  some  wrap 
around  me  and  rushed  out  of  the  house. 
I  wanted  to  go  to  the  hills  and  be  alone. 
I  don't  know  where  I  went.  After  a 
while  I  found  myself  in  the  hills.  I  was 
dazed.    I  was  tired.  The  fire  in  my  brain 


The  Other  House 


had  burned  out.    It  was  almost  dark.     I 
went  home. 

"  I  had  to  go  home.  There  were  the 
children.  I  didn't  know  what  else  I 
should  do,  but  there  were  things  I  must 
do  for  them.  They  had  to  be  fed  and 
bathed  and  dressed.  Sometimes  the 
routine  of  living  seems  stronger  than 
anything  else— unless  it's  death. 

"  The  next  few  days  I  don't  remember 
very  well.  In  the  back  of  my  brain  was 
an  idea  that,  as  soon  as  I  could,  I'd  take 
the  children  and  go  away  somewhere. 
That  throbbed  insistently.  Somewhere! 
Suddenly  it  stood  out,  like  a  question- 
Where?  I  had  no  people,  no  t.lSliations 
anywhere  else.  Where  could  I  take  my 
children?  He'd  been  a  good  father  to 
them.  They  loved  him  and  their  home. 
They  were  happy.  I  thought— perhaps 
—they  need  never  be  anything  else. 

"  He  pleaded  with  me  to  forgive  him. 
He  told  me  that  he  loved  me  better  than 
anything  else  in  the  world.    He  begged 


24 


The  Other  House 


for  my  love  and  confidence  and  promi:'.ecA 
that  he  would  make  things  as  easy  for  me 
as  he  could.  I  felt  numb  and  dead.  I 
said  I'd  bear  it  as  well  as  I  could  for  the 
children's  sake  and  because  I  believed  he'd 
done  the  wrong  through  a  perverted  sense 
of  duty. 

"  I  take  care  of  the  children.  I  attend 
faithfully  to  the  house.  I  make  George 
comfortable.  But  the  things  that  were 
once  pleasures  have  become  duties.  I 
don't  make  scenes,  they  would  distress 
us  both,  but  I  can  never  again  do  the 
fond,  foolish,  demonstrative  things  that 
made  us  both  happy.  I  accept  his  kisses, 
but  I  can't  offer  them  myself.  When,  oc- 
casionally, he  makes  some  pretext  for 
leaving  me,  I  don't  ask  any  questions. 
Sometimes  the  pretext  may  be  genuine, 
but  I  always  think  that  he  is  with  her, 
and  my  brain  seethes  with  tormenting 
fancies  of  them  together. 

"  The  secrecy  of  this  new  polygamy 
has  spared  me  one  thing — the  curious  and 


i 


The  Other  House 


25 


pitying  regard  of  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances. I've  forced  myself  to  hide  it  all. 
If  they  have  guessed,  they  haven't  dared 
talk  to  me. 

"  This  morning  she  gave  birth  to  a  son. 
He  has  come  to  take  the  place  of  my 
children  as  she  took  mine.  Oh,  I  have 
always  loved  all  children  and  the  mothers 
in  their  hours  of  agony.  But  this  woman! 
This  child!  The  world  seems  too  small 
for  me  and  my  children  and  for  her  and 
her  son.  I  mustn't  hate — the  child.  It's 
innocent.  I  mustn't  hate  innocence  and 
helplessness.     I  musn't! 

"I've  prayed,  but  my  prayers  aren't 
answered. 

"  Oh,  what  can  I  do,  Martie?  What 
can  I  do?" 

I  had  been  listening  in  a  horror  and  a 
helplessness  that  held  me  as  tense  as  she — 
facing  the  sunset  as  she  faced  it,  till  I 
could  no  longer  endure  the  sight  of  its  far, 
cold  withdrawal,  that  seemed  in  some  way 
an  abandonment  of  her  to  darkness  and 


ft6 


The  Other  House, 


misery — and  I  hid  my  face  in  my  hands 
and  wept  for  her. 

But  with  her  cry  of  "What  can  I  do, 
Martie?"  she  turned  to  me,  reaching  out 
blindly,  and  I  drew  her  to  me,  and  she 
clung  to  me  like  a  child,  shaken  with  sobs 
that  I  could  do  nothing  to  console. 

What  could  I  say?  What  could  I  do? 
Tragedy  of  death  itself  could  not  be  more 
irrevocable.  It  was  her  happiness  that 
had  been  killed — her  hope  in  love — the 
heart  of  her  life.  It  was  shameful,  hor- 
rible, unendurable.  But  even  if  she  could 
leave  him  — even  if  she  could  take  her 
children  from  their  father  and  break  all 
those  ties  of  the  past  that  bound  her  to 
him  in  the  memory  of  old  joys  and  com- 
mon sorrows  borne  together — even  if  she 
could  escape  from  the  claims  of  friends 
and  relatives  that  held  her  inescapably — 
what  would  she  have  to  take  with  her  but 
the  ruin  of  her  life  that  she  now  wept 
over? 

I  knew  that  in  spite  of  everything  she 


The  Other  House 


n 


still  loved  him — with  the  heart-broken 
love  of  a  wronged  woman  who  could  no 
more  hate  him  than  she  could  hate  her 
own  child.  And  I  knew  that  for  all  his 
blindness  and  fanaticism,  he  had  still  a 
human,  natural  love  for  her.  There  was 
nothing  that  I  could  do — nothing  that  I 
could  say.    I  held  her  dumbly. 

The  light  slowly  faded  out  of  the  sky. 

When  her  fit  of  weeping  had  spent  it- 
self, she  dried  her  eyes  and  kissed  me — in 
a  silent  gratitude  for  the  sympathy  that 
I  had  thought  too  vain  a  thing  to  give 
voice  to.  She  saw  the  street  lights  that 
were  showing  bright  below  us.  "I  must 
hurry."  she  said.  "The  children  will 
wonder " 

I  stood  up  with  her.  She  turned  and 
put  her  arm  around  my  neck.  "Martie," 
she  said,  "you  don't  think  that  I  am  cruel 
or  selfish  or  wicked,  do  you?" 

"  Oh,  Ruth,"  I  cried,  "  you're  all  pa- 
tience and  goodness  and — oh,  I  wish  I 
could  help!" 


J_ 


The  Other  House 


She  kissed  nie  gratefully  again.  "I 
know.  Only  God  can  help.  I  just  want- 
ed what  you  gave  me.  Thank  you,  dear. 
The  strain  was  killing  me.  .  .  .  You'll  not 
mind,  sometimes — when  I  can't  stand  the 
silence — ^you  will  let  me  speak  to  you?" 

The  sobs  choked  me. 

She  said  consolingly:  "There,  dear. 
I  feel  so  much  better.  Don't — It's  all 
right."  And,  turning  bravely  to  the  city, 
she  led  me  down  the  hillside,  with  her  arm 
around  me. 

Blinded  by  my  tears,  I  did  not  see  her 
face  till  we  came  to  a  lighted  house  where 
the  window  blinds  had  not  been  drawn. 
The  family  were  sitting  at  the  dinner- 
table — a  young  father  and  mother  with 
their  little  child — smiling.  Ruth  looked 
past  me  at  them.  I  pray  that  I  may  ne^  er 
know  for  myself  the  pain  of  longiiig  and 
regret  that  ached  in  her  eyes. 

She  did  not  speak.  I  could  not.  We 
went  in  silence  to  her  gate,  and  there  I 
kissed  her  good-night.    "Don't  be  too 


The  Other  Eouae 


29 


hard  on  him— in  your  thoughts,"  she 
pleaded.  "It  isn't  he,  you  know.  It 
isn't  he:* 

I  knew.    Oh.  I  knew!    And  that  was 
the  horror  of  it. 

I  waited,  lingering  futilely,  to  watch  her 
up  the  p  hway  to  her  door  She  opened 
It  and  stu^  in  the  frame  of  hght,  her  back 
to  me.  looking  at  the  tragical  coziness  of 
the  httle  hall— and  then,  turning  quickly, 
with  both  hands,  almost  convulsively,  she 
threw  the  door  shut— on  her  secret— on 
her  sorrow— on  her  innocent  shame. 

O  Uteh!  how  shall  you  answer  to  man- 
kind for  the  misery  of  such  homecomings? 
How  shall  you  cleanse  yourself  of  the  guilt 
of  such  martyrdoms?  How  shall  you 
atone  for  the  tears  of  my  poor  Ruth?  For 
It  is  to  you  that  she  cried  so  despairingly: 
"What  can  I  do?    Oh.  what  can  I  do?" 


n 


THE  PLURAL  WIFE 


"  It  was  Esther  Woodward,"  Ruth 
had  said.  It  was  Esther  Woodward  who 
had  shadowed  the  Hfe  of  the  woman  dear- 
est in  the  world  to  me.  And  when  I  met 
Esther  Woodward  again  for  the  first  time 
after  I  had  heard  Ruth's  story,  the  sight 
of  her  filled  me  with  an  anger  that  brought 
the  blood  to  my  face. 

She  had  an  air  of  aloofness  and  dignity, 
with  the  sort  of  beauty  that  is  called 
statuesque,  and  a  calm  poise  of  the  head 
that  carried  her  heavily-coiled  hair  like  a 
crown,  proudly.  She  proudl  I  turned 
from  her,  trembling  with  an  indignation 
that  I  could  not  hide.  She  had  stolen 
another  woman's  happiness;  and  to  do  it 
she  had  broken  not  only  the  law  of  the 

SO 


The  Other  House 


81 


ind,  but  the  law  of  the  church.    I  wanted 
to  make  Iier  suflFer  a  little  as  she  had  made 
Ruth  suffer  so  much.    I  wanted  her  to 
jce.  my  disgust  for  her.    I  tried  to  look  at 
her  with  a  composure  that  should  show 
nothmg  but  supreme  womanly  contempt. 
If  she  understood,  she  gave  no  sign. 
Her  dark  eyes   met   mine  impassively. 
Her  clear  white  skin  showed  no  flush. 
Her  lips   held   their  habitual   curve   of 
serene  reserve  and  pride.     I  thought  I 
saw  an  added  self-sufficiency,  as  of  ma- 
tronly contentment,  in  her  complete  and 
fruitful  beauty;  and  that  complacency  of 
stolen  happiness  turned  me  cold  with  ab- 
horrence. 

I  had  known  her  as  a  silent  girl— re- 
ligious, and  withdrawn  from  our  young 
circle  of  boy-and-girl  amusements;  and 
when  our  lives  had  deepened  into  the 
natural  mterests  of  youthful  love-affairs, 
she  had  remained  outside  that  circle  too, 
neither  attracting  affection  nor  apparent- 
ly desiring  any.    We  had  passed  her,  in 


_L 


82 


The  Other  House 


our  common  paths,  with  a  cheerful  in- 
diflFerence.  Now,  in  my  loathing,  I  felt 
that  there  had  been  something  repellent 
in  her,  something  abnormal  that  had 
warned  us  away  from  her,  something  that 
had  become  inhuman  enough  to  do  this 
monstrous  injustice  to  dear  Ruth. 

Esther's  family  and  ours  had  long  been 
friendly  neighbors,  but  no  word  of  her 
marriage  had  passed  between  them.  There 
is  in  this  new  polygamy  something  crim- 
inally secret  that  forbids  the  confidence  of 
old  friends,  and  hushes  gossip,  and  makes 
familiar  curiosity  avert  its  eyes.  I  sup- 
pose there  must  have  been  a  score  of 
acquaintances  in  our  neighborhood  who 
knew,  from  the  birth  of  Esther's  chiid, 
that  she  had  become  a  plural  wife;  but  I 
did  not  hear  a  word  of  it  from  any  one — 
except  Ruth.  I  spoke  of  it  to  no  one.  I 
said  nothing  to  explain  the  aversion  that 
made  me  ignore  Esther  Woodward  at  our 
Relief  Society  and  Mutual  Improvement 
meetings,  at  which  she  began  to  reappear. 


The  Other  House 


I 


I  asked  no  questions  when  she  ceased 
again  to  come.  I  remembered  that  when 
I  had  last  seen  her  she  had  looked  ill;  but 
there  was  no  calamity  that  could  have 
overtaken  her  which  I  should  not  have 
thought  deserved. 

A  few  months  later  a  fatal  accident 
brought  death  into  her  mother's  house, 
and  it  became  my  duty  as  a  neighbor  to 
help  in  the  friendly  offices  of  aid  and  con- 
solation.  I  went  almost  reluctantly.   Sis- 
ter  Woodward   was   a   real   mother   in 
Israel,   and   I  admired   and  loved   her. 
She  had  known  much  sorrow  and  many 
hardships  in  her  life,  and  she  had  grown 
jnly  more  patient  and  sweet  and  kindly 
under  them.    She  had  devoted  herself 
to  charitable  work  within  the  church,  in 
a  largeness  of  sympathy  that  had  made 
her  dear  to  us  all.    We  were  eager  to 
help  her  now,  if  any  help  were  possible, 
but  I  was  afraid  that  if  she  knew   my 
feeling  for  Esther,  I  could  be  of  small 
comfort  to  her. 


^ 


84 


The  Other  Bouse 


I  found  that  Esther  was  away  from 
home,  and  I  was  glad;  but  if  Sister  Wood- 
ward suspected  my  relief  she  did  not  ohow 
it.  She  was  bearing  her  sorrow  bravely, 
uncomplainingly,  as  she  had  borne  so 
much  in  her  long  life.  She  was  grate- 
ful for  what  I  did.  I  was  surprised  and 
touched  by  her  dependence  and  reliance 
on  me,  and  I  wished  truly  that  I  might  be 
able  to  do  something  to  comfort  and  con- 
sole her.  She  sat  so  patiently  by  her 
window,  with  her  poor  old  gray  head  only 
bowed  a  little,  and  her  dear  wrinkled 
face  so  mutely  enduring! 

I  put  my  arm  about  her  shoulders  and 
bent  down  to  ask:  "Isn't  there  something 
— isn't  there  anything — that  I  can  do?" 
She  was  silent,  but  I  felt  a  little  tremor 
as  if  she  were  about  to  speak,  and  her 
clasped  hands  in  her  lap  moved  nervously, 
and  tightened.  She  said  at  last:  "Mar- 
tha, if  you  would —  There's  one  thing 
I've  wanted  to  speak  about,  but  I  couldn't. 
You  know,  there  are  sorrows  worse  than 


*i 


The  Other  House 


85 


death's.  It*s  harder  to  see  a  child  suffer 
— suffer  every  day — than  it  is  to  give  them 
up  to  our  Heavenly  Father — to  peace  and 
rest." 

I  knew  what  she  meant,  and  I  must 
have  shrunk  a  little  from  h2r,  for  she 
reached  up  her  worn,  thin  hand  and 
caught  my  fingers.  "It's  my  Esther— 
my  poor  girl.  You  don't  know  how  she's 
suffering.  She's  proud.  She  would  never 
ask  for  it — but  she  needs — she  needs  pity. 
She  told  me  once  that  you  wouldn't  even 
speak  to  her,  and  it  hurt  her,  though  she 
tried  not  to  show  it — even  to  me.  She's  a 
good  girl,  Martha.  She's  a  good  girl— 
You  did  all  you  could  for  my  dead  child. 
Can't  you " 

All  my  loyalty  to  my  friend  Ruth  had 
swelled  in  my  heart.  I  looked  away  from 
the  pleading  of  those  dim,  eager  eyes. 
"Sister  Woodward,"  I  said,  "I  wouldn't 
hurt  you  for  the  world,  but  you  know  how 
I  love  Ruth.  She*s  the  injured  one. 
They  might  both  have  been  happy.  Esther 


The  Other  House 


might  have  married  any  one.  She's 
beautiful — and  you  say  she's  good.  Oh, 
why  couldn't  it  have  been  some  one  else 
than  Ruth's  husband!" 

I  felt  brutal  when  I  saw  her  tears,  and 
I  thought  that  she  would  turn  from  me  in 
anger;  but  she  had  been  schooled  to  en- 
durance. "Dearie!  Dearie,"  she  wept, 
patting  my  hand,  "you  don't  understand. 
I've  suflFered,  and  I've  seen  others  suffer, 
for  what  we  believed  to  be  right.  Esther 
is  suffering  now —  for  conscience'  sake — 
like  all  those  others.  Your  own  grand- 
father went  to  prison  because  he  believed 
in  polygamy  and  practised  it,  and  you 
think  he  was  a  hero.  Dearie,  it  was  your 
grandfather  who  brought  my  family  into 
the  church.  I've  always  cared  for  people 
of  your  name.  That's  one  reason  why  I 
don't  want  you  to  wrong  Esther  in  your 
heart.  You  love  Ruth.  Yes,  yes.  But 
you  must  be  just  to  Esther.  I  want  you 
to  see  her.  I  want  you  to  hear  the  truth 
about  her." 


i 


The  Other  House 


87 


It  was  on  my  lips  to  say  "I  am  not 
Esther's  judge";  but  before  I  could  say  it, 
I  Hood  condemned  before  myself.  I  had 
juciged  her,  and  I  had  judged  her  unheard. 
I  promised  Sister  Woodward  that  I  would 
go  and  see  her  daughter. 

She  told  me  that  Esther  was  living  in 

B ,  where  her  baby  had  been  born, 

and  where  she  was  known  only  as  Sister 
Gray.  She  and  her  husband,  George 
Easton,  had  feared  to  have  her  remain  in 
Salt  Lake  City,  where  she  was  so  well 
known  by  outsiders,  as  well  as  by  our  own 
people.  He  did  not  dare  to  give  her  the 
protection  of  his  name,  and  she  could  not 
appear  now  under  her  maiden  i  me,  since 
her  baby  had  come.    So  she  had  gone 

back  to  B ,  where  all  the  people  were 

Mormons. 

B is  only  a  few  miles  from  Salt 

Lake  City — a  small,  straggling  village — 
a  settlement  as  we  call  it.  According  to 
our  reckoning  of  age  in  the  new  West,  it 
is  old;  for  its  locust  and  box-elder  trees 


88 


The  Other  House 


were  among  the  first  planed  by  the 
pioneers.  Most  of  the  houses  are  of  a 
type  common  in  early  Utah  -'ays,  built 
either  of  roughly  cemented  stone  or  of 
adobe  bricks.  In  Spring  the  orchards 
are  like  pink  and  white  clouds  hovering 
close  to  the  earth.  In  Summer  the  yards 
are  gay  with  old-fashioned  flowers,  and 
vines  screen  the  walls.  But  I  went  there 
in  late  November;  all  the  flowers  were 
gone;  the  trees  were  bare,  and  the  dead- 
brown  vines  clung  desperately  to  the 
forlorn,  ugly  old  houses,  shaken  by  the 
bleak  mountain  winds  that  whipped  and 
blustered  through  the  streets. 

I  had  been  called  to  visit  our  Relief 

Society  organization  in  B ,  and  I  had 

journeyed  down  from  Salt  Lake  City  with 
two  of  the  older  sisters.  But  all  during 
the  hymns,  the  praye.*,  the  testimonies  of 
the  sisters,  and  the  sewing  for  the  poor 
after  the  regular  meeting,  the  thought  that 

Esther  was  in  B and  that  I  had 

promised  her  mother  to  see  her,  kept  in- 
sistently in  my  mind. 


H 


i^B 


The  Other  Haute 


It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the 
meeting  closed.  Several  sisters  invited  us 
to  take  supper  and  spend  the  evening  at 
their  homes.  My  companions  accepted, 
but  I  made  my  excuses  and  asked  to  be 
directed  to  Sister  Gray's.  The  house 
was  pointed  out  to  me,  and  I  walked  to- 
ward it,  wondering  what  Esther  Wood- 
ward and  I  could  say  to  each  other  that 
could  help  or  comfort  either  of  us. 

It  was  a  little  dirt-gray  adobe  cottage. 
When  I  came  to  the  gate  I  was  so  re- 
luctant to  enter  that  I  hesitated,  glancing 
guiltily  at  the  windows.  There  was 
some  one  looking  out.  I  walked  slowly 
up  the  narrow  weed-grown  path,  and  saw 
that  it  was  Esther  standing  sideways  at 
the  window,  her  back  toward  me,  staring 
out  across  her  shoulder  at  the  mountains. 
There  was  something  in  her  arms.  She 
did  not  see  me.  I  knocked  at  the  door. 
She  opened  it  herself.  It  was  the  baby 
she  was  holding. 

I  had  thought,  before,  that  she  looked 


40 


The  Other  H(m»e 


ill.  Now  I  saw  the  marks  of  more  than  a 
bodily  pain.  The  delicate  skin  under  her 
eyes  had  withered  and  discolored.  The 
expression  of  her  mouth  had  changed 
from  the  curve  of  gentle  pride  to  a  hard 
line  of  repression.  She  recognized  me 
with  a  slow  surprise  that  faded  into  an 
almost  sullen  expectancy. 

"Esther,"  I  said,  "your  mother  asked 
me  to  come  to  see  you.  I  promised  her  I 
would." 

She  opened  the  door  wider  to  let  me  in, 
but  as  she  drew  back  she  gathered  the 
baby  closer  to  her  breast.  I  stepped  into 
the  front  room  of  the  cottage — for  there 
was  no  hall — and  she  closed  the  door  with 
her  shoulder  and  stood  rigid,  silent,  in- 
hospitable. 

I  said:  "If  you  don't  want  to  see  me — " 
She  drew  up  the  shawl  that  was  slipping 
from  her  shoulder,  and  without  moving 
her  eyes  from  their  steadfast  gaze  at  me, 
she  replied  deliberately:  "I  do.  Yes.  I 
have  wanted  to  see  you.  Won't  you  sit 
down?" 


The  Other  House 


41 


She  watched  me  seat  myself  in  an  old 
rockmg  chair.  Then  she  walked  to  the 
window  and  stood  looking  out  at  the 
dusk.  I  felt  the  bareness  of  the  room 
without  glancing  at  it,  as  I  suddenly  felt 
the  barrenness  of  her  life  without  con- 
sciously thinking  of  it.  I  ^ -It  them  both 
in  a  depr  ssion,  in  a  sinking  pain  at  the 
heart. 

"Now  that  you're  here,"  she  said  dully, 
"I  don't  know  what  there  is  to  say." 

I  knew  that  she  had  been  fond  of  books 
and  pictures,  but  there  was  not  a  book 
even  on  the  center  table — just  some  sew- 
ing, a  work-basket,  and  a  small  kitchen 
bowl  with  a  spoon  in  it.  There  was  not  a 
picture  on  the  bare  walls,  where  the  paper 
and  its  design  had  faded  and  yellowed  to- 
gether into  one  common  drab  of  saffron. 

It  was  all  so  unlike  the  cheerful  com- 
fort of  her  mother's  home — even  in  the 
face  of  grief — that  it  silenced  the  thought 
I  had  of  trying  to  tell  her  some  consoling 
word  of  her  mother's  brave  resignation. 


4f 


The  Other  House 


'There  are  sorrows  worse  than  death's." 
I  realized  it. 

She  had  turned.  **I  know  you  blame 
me — almost  as  much  as  Ruth  does/'  she 
said,  dispassionately.  "And  I've  tried 
not  to  care — but  I've  felt  it.  I've  tried 
to  do  right,  as  I  saw  it.  And  J  thought 
so  long  as  I  did  thaty  I  could  endure  any- 
thing— misunderstanding,  loneliness,  any- 
thing. But" — She  looked  down  at  the  si- 
lent, staring  infant  in  her  arms,  and  ended 
in  a  low  breath — "I  can't.    I  can't." 

"If  I  have  done  you  an  injustice,"  I  put 
in  hastily,  "I'm  sorry,  Esther."  She 
looked  up  at  once  in  a  quick  defiance. 
"But  I  don't  know  how  you  can  justify 
yourself,"  I  replied  to  that  look.  "It  was 
against  the  law  of  the  church  as  well  as 
the  law  of  the  land.  And  you  ruined 
Ruth's  whole  life." 

"And  mine!"  she  cried.  "What  about 
mine?  She  plucked  at  her  shawl  again, 
throwing  back  her  head.  "No.  Not 
that.    I  don't  care — ^it  doesn't  matter 


The  Other  House 


48 


about  me.  It's  baby.  I  can't  stand  it 
for  Aim.  I  can't.  You  must  tell  her.  You 
must  explain  to  her.    She  mustn't " 

"Ruth?" 

She  sank  down  suddenly  into  the  chair 
that  stood  behind  her.  She  was  weeping. 
"I  can't  have  them  hating  my  little  boy. 
J  can't.  If  anything  were  to  happen  to 
they'd  lie  to  him  and  make  him  hate 
JL  .V,  and  teach  him  to  blame  me.  I  want 
to  tell  you.  I  must.  I  must  make  them 
understand.  Oh,  baby!  baby!"  The 
child  had  begun  to  squirm  against  the 
pressure  of  her  arms.  He  broke  out  in  a 
querulous  wail. 

I  went  over  to  her,  in  pity.  "Give  him 
to  me.  Your  crying  frightens  him.  Let 
me  have  him.  Don't  cry.  Give  him 
to  me." 

She  wiped  his  little  contorted  red  face 
distractedly  with  the  end  of  her  shawl  as 
I  took  him  up.  "There!"  I  said  to  calm 
her,  "what  a  sturdy,  beautiful  boy! 
How  like  you  he  is!  How  much  does  he 
weigh?" 


44 


The  Other  House 


She  told  me  with  a  pathetic  smile 
faltering  through  her  tears;  and  while  I 
dandled  him  to  and  fro,  she  boasted  of 
his  health  and  his  baby  virtues — that  he 
never  cried  except  when  he  was  hungry, 
that  he  slept  so  well  at  nights  she  had  to 
wake  him  to  feed  him,  that  he  would  lie 
for  hours  in  her  arms  looking  up  at  her 
solemnly.  Her  face  had  softened.  I 
had  unconsciously  found  the  way  to  her 
heart,  to  her  confidence. 

"He  has  made  such  a  diflference,"  she 
said.  "Sometimes  I  think  I  was  never 
natural  till  he  came.  Didn't  you  use  to 
think  I  was  different — ^from  the  other 
girls?" 

She  kept  her  eyes  on  him,  all  the  time, 
apprehensively.  I  sat  down  and  let  him 
rest  on  my  lap,  where  he  lay  regarding 
the  strange  face  above  him  with  a  blink- 
ing absorption  of  interest.  "I  thought 
you  were  more  serious-minded  than  toe 
were,"  I  replied.    "And  more  religious." 

"Even  when  you  were  young,"  she 


The  Other  House 


45 


said,   "you   all   had  your  sweethearts, 
didn't   you?       I   don't   believe   I   ever 
thought  of  love  or  marriage.     Mother 
used  to  worry  about  it.   She  wanted  me  to 
go  to  parties."    She  spoke  as  if  she  had 
been  going  over  it  all  in  her  mind,  made 
newly  introspective  by  solitude  and  lonely 
thoughts.     "She  asked   me  once  about 
getting  married,  and  I  didn't  like  it— the 
thought  of  it.    I  wanted  to  live  with  her 
all  my  life,  and— yes,  I  was  religious. 
Ever  since  I  was  a  mere  child.    I  sup- 
pose that  was  it."    She  thought  about  it, 
with  a  curious,  puzzled  interest.    "I  used 
to  be  so  happy  singing  in  the  Tabernacle 
that  I'd  cry.    They  used  to  preach  about 
the  sorrows  and  the  wickedness  of  the 
world,  and  I  always  felt  safe  from  all 
that,  there.     I  thought  perhaps  I  would 
be  sealed  to  some  good  man  for  eternity — 
and  be  a  wife  only  in  Heaven — but — Did 
you  ever  feel  that  way  about  marriage? 
That  it  was  a  part  of  the  sorrow  and  the 
wickedness?" 


49 


The  Other  House 


I  answered  with  some  cheerful  common- 
place about  marriage  being  a  woman's 
greatest  happiness.  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
replying  to  the  first  self -questionings  of  a 
young  girl. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that's  what  mother 
told  me.  I  suppose  I  was  queer."  Her 
face  clouded  with  her  thoughts.  "They 
told  me  I  ought  to  marry  for  'principle^ 
even  if  I  didn't  care  about  it.  Not  moth- 
er!   It  was  Sister  R said  it — ^firet — 

once  when  I  was  on  a  trip  with  her,  doing 
church  work,  when  we  were  driving  from 
one  settlement  to  another.  She  asked 
me  why  I  didn't  marry,  and  I  told  her 
what  I  had  told  mother — that  I  wanted 
to  give  my  life  to  church  work.  She  said : 
*But  haven't  you  thought  that  you  might 
serve  the  church  better  by  marrying? 
You  know,  we  don't  believe  in  our  girls 
being  nuns,  like  the  Catholics.*  And  then 
she  said:  'It's  a  pity  you  didn't  live  a 
few  years  ago.  You  would  have  made  a 
splendid  plural  wife.    You  could  have 


The  Other  Hcmse 


47 


strengthened  the  church  by  helping  to 
keep  up  that  divine  system  of  marriage/  " 

Esther  had  dropped  her  voice  to  repeat 
the  words  of  that  first  hint  of  the  tempta- 
tion, and  now,  in  silence,  she  gazed  at  me 
unseeingly,  with  a  drawn  frown  twistmg 
her  black  eyebrows.  It  was  growing 
dark,  and  I  sat  in  the  shadows  with  the 
child  asleep  on  my  knees.  She  went  on — 
as  if  piecing  together  the  incidents  of 
her  betrayal  for  che  first  time  consecu- 
tively to  herself— in  a  level,  thoughtful 
tone  of  unconscious  candor: 

"Then,  one  Sunday  night,  at  our  ward 
meeting,  one  of  the  brethren  spoke  on 
polygamy.  He  said  he  felt  strongly  im- 
pressed that  God  was  about  to  restore  it 
to  our  i^cjople,  and  he  said  that  through 
Ihat  principle  the  Latter  Day  Saints 
would  save  the  rest  of  the  world  from  its 
grossness  and  wickedness.  He  told  how 
pure  and  unselfish  people  became  in  the 
plural  marriage  relation.  He  said  that 
the  women  who  had  lived  in  polygamy 


48 


The  Other  House 


in  the  past— and  those  who  would  live  in 
it  in  the  future — were  heroines  of  the 
faith— that  they  were  intended  by  God  to 
become  mothers  of  the  noblest  spirits 
among  all  those  who  were  waiting  for  an 
opportunity  to  enter  this  world. 

"Then  the  next  speaker  was  George 
Easton.    I  had  known  him  ever  since  we 
were  children — but  never  intimately.    I 
had  never  happened  to  hear  him  speak 
in  meeting  before.    And  I  thought  I  had 
never  heard  any  one  who  had  more  of  the 
spirit  of  the  Lord.    His  voice  rang  with 
such  sincerity.    His  face  seemed  trans- 
figured when  he  bore  his  testimony  to  the 
truth  of  the  gospel.    And  when  he  spoke 
of  the  sacrifices  our  fathers  and  mothers 
had  made  for  their  faith— especially  for 
their  belief  and  practise  of  plural  mar- 
riage— how  the  women  had  suffered  the 
scorn  of  the  world,  of  exile  from  their 
homes,  and  how  the  men  had  gone  to 
prison  rather  than  deny  the  truth — my 
heart  burned  with  loyalty  to  those  mar- 


The  Other  House 


49 


tyrs»  and  I  found  tears  running  down  my 
face. 

"I  never  thought  of  George  Easton, 
after  that,  as  a  man  like  other  men.  I 
compared  him  to  the  Apostle  Paul,  and 
gradually  I  grew  to  think  of  him  under 
that  name.  I  began  to  see  him  frequent- 
ly. We  were  associated  together  a  good 
deal  in  the  Sunday-school  work.  And  I 
began  to  think  of  being  sealed  to  him  for 
the  hereafter.  And  so,  at  last,  I  told 
mother,  and  she  spoke  to  father,  and  he 
mentioned  it  to  the  bishop. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  learned  that 
George  knew  of  it,"  she  said,  as  wistfully 
as  any  young  wife  recalling  the  happy 
days  of  her  courtship.  "I  think  I  guessed 
it  from  his  manner  to  me.  Often,  when 
our  work  gave  him  the  opportunity,  he 
talked  to  me  about  the  truth  and  beauty 
of  the  gospel.  One  evening  he  walked 
home  with  me  from  a  Sunday-school 
teachers'  meeting.  We  walked  slowly 
under  the  trees.    Suddenly  he  said:  '£s- 


50 


The  Other  House 


ther,  you*re  a  noble  girl.  You're  des- 
tined to  do  great  good  here  and  to  receive 
a  high  reward  in  the  hereafter.  You  will 
shine  like  a  bright  jewel  in  the  celestial 
kingdom  of  some  good  man.  I  wish  I 
were  worthy  to  take  you  to  myself.* 

"I  was  frightened  with  the  joy  that 
came  upon  me — and  the  doubts.  I  re- 
vered him  more  than  I  had  believed  I 
could  revere  any  man.  But  I  was  afraid 
to  think — to  ask  myself  if  there  was  any- 
thing more  than  just  revering  him.  That 
night  I  prayed  that  God  would  show  me 
my  way  of  life.  Was  I  to  love  here,  and 
be  united  only  in  the  hereafter?    Or " 

She  clenched  her  hand  against  her 
breast,  passionately.  "Oh,  how  was  I 
to  know?  How  was  I  to  know  what 
it  meant — what  I  was  doing?  I  had  never 
cared  for  a  man  before,  except  my  father 
and  my  brother.  I  didn't  know.  I 
didn't  understand." 

The  pressure  of  the  hand  on  her  bosom 
seemed  to  force  back  that  cry  of  despair 


The  Other  Etmee 


51 


and  regret.  She  controlled  herself  with 
a  hard  catch  of  the  breath.  The  hand 
dropped  into  her  lap.  She  went  on,  after 
a  silence,  monotonously: 

'Then  Sister  E died.  She  died  sud- 
denly. Before  the  funeral  they  let  us 
know — all  of  us  who  had  been  near  to 
her — they  let  us  know  that  she  was  an 
elect  and  ordained  priestess  to  God — an 
appointed  queen  in  the  eternities — a 
plural  wife.  I  had  admired  her  so.  She 
had  been  one  of  my  ideals.  She  was  a 
good  woman.  To  me  she  had  seemed 
angelic. 

"The  services  in  the  church  academy 
were  the  most  beautiful  IVe  ever  seen. 
Some  of  us  who  had  been  told  the  secret 
of  her  life  were  dressed  in  white  and  wear- 
ing wreaths  of  bridal  blossoms,  and  we 
sat  around  her  white  velvet  coffin  and 
sang  the  songs  of  Zion.  From  the  pulpit 
the  apostles  and  prophets  of  the  church 
looked  down  at  us. 

"Brother  Smith  spoke  of  the  purity 


5^ 


The  Other  House 


of  her  life  and  the  assurance  of  her  resur- 
rection among  the  saints.  He  said  that 
she  had  chosen  the  nobler  part,  and  her 
reward  was  more  glorioas  than  human 
tongue  could  describe — greater  than  hu- 
man intelligence  could  conceive  or  human 
hope  could  compass.    He  said  that  Sister 

E had  been  set  apart  in  the  councils  of 

the  gods,  before  the  world  was  made,  to 
come  in  this  dispensation  to  mate  with  a 
prophet  and  help  him  to  the  establish- 
ment of  a  redeeming  principle.  She  had 
been  saved  and  exalted  eternally  by  her 
act  of  consecration.  She  would  reign 
forever  as  a  queen  at  the  right  hand  of 
the  1^ cither,  and  women  of  lesser  devotion 
would  be  her  ministering  handmaids, 
without  husbands,  and  without  children. 
**We  who  sat  around  the  coffin  knew 
what  he  meant.  He  was  proclaiming 
the  sanctity  and  the  necessity  of  plural 
marriage.  And  when  he  looked  down  at 
us  and  cried  in  his  thrilling  voice:  *Go, 
ye  sisters  of  Christ  and  daughters  of  God. 


The  other  House 


58 


Go  and  do  likewise!'  it  seemed  to  me  a 
command  had  come  that  I  couldn't  dis- 
obey without  the  loss  of  my  soul. 

*'It  was  a  call  in  this  life.  I  wasn't  to 
wait  to  die  and  then  have  George  take 
me  as  a  wife  for  eternity.  I  must  brave 
all  the  laws  of  men  and  all  the  condem- 
nation of  society  by  treading  the  path  that 
had  led  Sister  E — — to  her  sainthood. 

"Brother  Smith  came  down  from  the 
pulpit  while  we  were  still  grouped  around 
the  coffin.  He  clasped  our  hands,  one  by 
one.  When  he  reached  me.  I  know  I 
turned  pale.  He  whispered:  *Are  you 
too,  ready  to  obey  the  everlasting  cove- 
nant, Sister  Woodward? '  I  wouldn't 
answer.  I  looked  at  him.  He  under- 
stood.    He  pressed  my  hand." 

She  stretched  her  arms  up,  and  silently 
let  them  fall  again.  I  could  not  see  her 
face,  it  was  only  a  pale  blur  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

"After  a  while,  I  knew  that  they  had 
all  talked  it  over,  and  that  George  had 


54 


The  Other  Hotue 


acquiesced,  and  that  my  assent  was  as- 
sumed. No  one  spoke  of  it,  but  I  knew 
it  from  the  worried  way  my  father  looked 
at  me.  I  knew  it  from  the  mystery  of 
my  mother's  manner.  I  wondered  why 
George  didn't  come  to  me.  I  waited  and 
waited.  I  waited  in  a  sort  of  daze.  I 
wondered  what  was  happening  to  me. 
They  were  all  so  kind. 

"Once,  when  I  met  Brother  Smith,  he 
looked  at  me  with  such  exultant  approval 
that  my  heart  thrilled  with  the  faith  that 
God  had  marked  me  as  a  saving  priest- 
ess.   I  waited. 

"One  day,  my  mother  said:  'Some  of 
the  sisters  are  going  to  conference  in 
Mexico,  Esthe  .  George  wants  you  to 
go  with  then  Oh,  my  child,  I  pray 
that  you  ma>  be  happy.  You  are  doing 
the  will  of  the  Lord  and  He  will  bless  you.* 
But  my  father  took  me  in  his  arms  and 
said:  *My  little  girl!  Do  you  really  want 
to  go?  Tell  your  dad.  It*s  not  too  late. 
1*11  stop  everything,  if  you  just  say  the 


The  Other  House 


M 


word.  Don't  be  afraid.  No  one  shall 
be  unkind  to  you  while  I  live.' 

"I  couldn't  say  anything.  What  could 
I  say?  That  I  didn't  want  to  be  George's 
wife — here  and  hereafter?  That  would 
be  a  lie.  That  I  didn't  want  to  obey  the 
will  of  God?     That  would  be  blasphemy. 

"So  I  said:  It's  all  right,  father.  I 
know  how  good  and  kind  you  are — ^but  I 
want  to  go  to  George' — and  he  released 
me  with  a  sigh,  and  turned  away.  I 
wondered  at  him.  I  couldn't  understand 
why  he — even  when  he  prayed,  that 
night,  aloud  'O  Lord,  guide  Thy  young 
handmaiden  with  Thy  wisdom  and  help 
her  to  be  prudent,  and  let  her  not  be  led 
away  by  any  mistaken  counsel* — still  I 
would  not  understand. 

"And  that  was  all  the  warning  I  had — 
his  prayer  and  his  sigh  when  I  refused  his 
offer  of  help.  That  was  all.  That  was 
all.    God  did  not  speak." 

She  said  it  in  a  deep,  hoarse,  empty 
voice:  "God  did  not  speak!" 


56 


The  Other  Honee 


She  was  leaning  forward  on  the  arms 
of  her  chair,  supporting  her  head  in  her 
hands,  her  fingers  spread  across  her  tem- 
ples. There  was  almost  a  sneer  of  self- 
contempt  in  her  dead  dryness  as  she 
continued: 

"Sister  G went  with  me  on  the  trip 

to  Mexico.  She  offended  me  with  the 
constant  oihnesss  of  her  congratulations. 
She  kissed  me  morning  and  night — and 
whenever  she  introduced  me  to  any  of  the 
brethren  and  sisters,  she  did  it  with  such 
smirks  and  whisp>ers  and  such  little  dabby, 
proprietary  airs.  Besides,  she  wouldn't 
talk  about  anything  but  'polygamy,  that 
sacred  principle.*  She  took  more  liber- 
ties with  my  precious  secret  than  my  own 
mother  had  taken. 

"If  anything  could  have  roused  me — 
But  no!  I  was  on  my  way  to  happiness 
on  earth  and  exaltation  in  Heaven! 

"When  I  met  George  at  Colonia  Diaz, 
he  was  pale  and  quiet.  He  took  me  from 
the  bishop's  house.     We  walked  a  little 


The  Other  House 


51 


distance  from  the  settlement,  and  there 
we  met  an  apostle.  I  promised  never  to 
tell  his  name.  He's  dead.  May  the 
Lord  deal  with  him! 

"He  told  me  to  place  my  right  hand 
in  George's.  He  gave  me  to  him — here 
and  hereafter — *by  virtue  of  the  author- 
ity of  God  in  him  vested.' 

•*I  walked  back  to  the  bishop's   house 
a  wife — George's  wife — a  plural  wife — 
and  a  priestess  to  God." 

There  followed  a  long  silence.  I  knew 
that  she  was  weeping.  She  said  in  a 
broken  whisper:  "I  was  happy.  Wher- 
ever we  went,  every  one  was  good  to  me. 
They  all  seemed  to  know,  without  being 
told.  Nobodj  asked  questions.  No- 
body spoke  to  me  about  it.  'obody  said 
anything  to  warn  me  O  ,  my  God! 
I  was  happyl" 

She  slippet?  to  hei  knees  on  the  floor. 
When  I  had  put  he  baby  on  the  chair 
and  stumbled  tcr  jss  the  darkness  to  her, 
I  found  her  in  c.  stricken  huddle,  with  her 


8» 


The  Other  House 


hands  twisted  in  her  hair.  I  thought 
she  had  fainted.  When  I  heard  what  she 
was  whispering,  I  thought  she  had  gone 
mad.    I 

I  can  not  write  of  it. 

I  could  not  make  her  hear  me.  I  could 
not  get  her  up.  It  was  the  baby  who  did 
it.  He  had  begun  to  whimper  as  soon  as 
I  put  him  down,  and  now  he  was  crying 
lustily.  I  got  him  and  brought  him  to 
her.  She  was  struggling  to  her  feet;  she 
clutched  him  and  sank  down  with  him, 
and  I  heard  her  consoling  him  with  dis- 
tracted endearments.  I  felt  as  if  we  were 
all   going  mad  there  in  the  darkness. 

I  don't  remember  how  I  ever  found 
the  matches  and  lighted  a  lamp.  It 
showed  her  sitting  on  the  floor,  with  her 
baby  hungry  at  her  breast,  her  head 
thrown  back  upon  the  seat  of  the  chair, 
and  her  hair,  wet  with  tears,  dragged 
across  her  eyes.  When  I  had  helped  her 
into  the  seat  and  dried  her  poor  white 
face,  and  pinned  up  her  hair,  I  kissed  her; 


The  Other  House 


50 


and  she  looked  at  me  with  the  uncompre- 
hending stare  of  a  first  return  to  con- 
sciousness and  closed  her  eyes  again. 

I  took  o£F  my  hat  and  coat  and  went  to 
find  the  kitchen.  I  was  crying  so,  myself, 
that  I  could  scarcely  see.  I  wanted  to 
get  her  something  to  eat  and  put  her  to 
bed.  That  was  the  best  that  I  could  do 
for  her. 

The  kitchen  had  the  same  look  of  home- 
lessness  that  had  shown  in  the  front 
room.  There  were  no  curtains  on  the 
windows — ^just  old  green  blinds  that  were 
tied  up  with  cords.  The  kitchen  utensils 
did  not  fill  one  shelf.  The  cook  stove 
was  rusty;  some  of  the  baby's  clothes 
hung  drying  on  the  oven  door.  Every- 
thing was  clean  but  bare,  and  there  was  no 
sign  anywhere  of  the  loving  hand  of  the 
housewife. 

I  could  imagine  her  going  about  her 
work  there  mechanically,  alone  with  her 
tragic  thoughts.  The  hopeless  pathos 
of  it  all   came    over  me  in  a  nervous 


60 


The  Other  House 


revulsion  that  made  me  feel  faint  and 
ill.  I  went  shakily  about,  setting  the 
table  and  renewing  the  fire;  and  all  the 
time  my  futile  brain  kept  repeating  to  me, 
over  and  over,  senselessly:  "What  a 
shame!  What  a  shame!  What  a  shame! 
What  a  shame!  ** 

They  were  both  victims  equally — she 
and  Ruth! 

I  heard  her  putting  the  baby  to  bed  in 
an  inner  room,  and  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  I  would  not  let  her  talk  any  more. 
But  when  she  came  in  silently,  with  a  face 
of  hopeless  calm,  and  went  to  the  dishes 
on  the  stove,  I  realized  how  useless  it 
would  be  for  me  to  try  to  do  anything  to 
control  or  persuade  her. 

"TeU  Ruth,"  she  said,  "that  I  didn't 
begin  to  understand  what  we  had  done, 
until  after  George  had  seen  her.  Then 
I  read  something  of  it  in  his  look.  Re- 
morse— it  was  if  we  had  been  guilty 
together.  He  was  gentle  with  me,  but  he 
wasn't  the  same  as  before.    I  was  too 


The  Other  House 


61 


proud  to  ask,  and  he  didn't  tell  me.    I 
thought  it  would  pass." 

"Don't  talk  about  it,"  I  pleaded. 
"Don't.    Not  now.     Not  yet." 

She  shook  her  head.  "You  must  make 
her  understand.  I  thought  it  would  be 
all  right — ^in  time.  And  when  the  baby 
came,  and  George  knelt  beside  my  bed 
and  prayed  for  us  all,  I  was  sure  that  God 
heard  and  was  watching  over  us — ^that 
He  would  help  us. 

"Only — George  never  let  himself  be 
seen  with  us.  Baby  was  born  here,  in  this 
house.  I  had  to  hide.  And  when  we  were 
able  to  go  out,  George  never  went  out 
with  us.  Sometimes  he  wouldn't  come  for 
days.  I  began  to  see  what  my  life  was  to 
be — ^no  home,  no  husband — ^just  a  kind  of 
sanctified,  sacrificial  aloofness." 

She  was  blundering  aimlessly  with  the 
pan  in  which  I  was  warming  over  some 
stale  chops .  I  took  the  cooking  fork  from 
her  and  begged  her  to  sit  down  at  the 
table.    She  obeyed  me  unconsciously. 


fit  The    Other  Hmue 

"I  went  to  visit  with  George's  mother. 
And  one  morning  she  came  flutteriag  nerv- 
ously in  to  me  and  said:  'Esther,  I  don't 
know  what  you  ought  to  do.  Ruth  is  here 
to  spend  the  day.  I*m  afraid  it  would  be 
painful  to  you  both  if  you  were  to  meet. 
Don't  you  want  to  go  through  the  back 
way  to  Gertrude's,  and  take  Baby  for  a 
few  hours?' 

"If  it  had  been  only  myself!  But  our 
baby,  his  baby!  His  wife  and  'child!  We 
were  as  much  his  as  Ruth  and  her  children. 

"I  took  Baby  up  in  my  arms  and  went 
into  the  parlor.  Ruth  was  sitting  there 
with  her  two  little  ones.  When  she  saw 
who  it  was,  a  look  of  awful  horror  came 
over  her  face.  She  caught  her  children  to 
her,  and  put  her  arms  around  them — ^to 
shield  them — from  me,  think  of  it!  From 
mel 

"I  stood  staring  at  her.  Mother 
Easton  came  in  and  plucked  at  my 
sleeve.  I  looked  at  her.  I  didn't  un- 
derstand.   And  then,  in  just  one  instant, 


h-ti 


The  Other  Haute 


68 


I  saw  it.  Ruth  hated  me  and  Baby.  She 
hated  us  for  herself.  She  hated  us  for  her 
children.  I  had  taken  her  husband  like 
—like  a  bad  woman.  I  had  stolen  him 
— ^from  her — ^from  her  children. 

"I  knew,  in  that  instant,  every  depth 
and  flame  of  the  hell  that  Ruth  had  suf- 
fered. 

"I  could  have  gone  down  on  my  knees 
and— and  asked  her  to  forgive  me,  but  her 
face  and  her  eyes  turned  me  away.  I 
couldn't  look  at  it— the  misery— the 
misery  I  had  brought  to  her.  I  couldn't 
face  her.    I  felt  degraded— lost. 

"I  kissed  mother — George's  mother.  It 
was  good-by.  I  never  wanted  to  see  her 
again.  She  didn't  know.  I  didn't  say  any 
thing.  I  took  Baby's  things.  I  wouldn't 
wait  for  a  carriage.  I  wouldn't  leave  any 
message  for  George.  I  wanted  tc  ,'et  out 
of  the  house  and  out  of  their  lives,  i  jrever, 
always. 

"My  father  cares  for  my  wants.  He 
has  refused  to  let  me  accept  any  help  from 
George. 


64 


The  Other  House 


t^^ 


*We  live  here  in  hiding — ^because  the 
church  refuses  to  acknowledge  our  mar- 
riage. They  are  denying  to  the  world  the 
existence  of  new  polygamy.  That  is 
father's  reason — ^to  protect  his  church. 
But  not  mine.  I  daren't  see  George.  I 
don't  know  whether  I  hate  him  or  love 
him.  In  either  case  I  couldn't  trust  my- 
self. 

"There's  nothing  left.  I  heard  yester- 
day that  he  and  Ruth  had  denied  to  their 
older  children — and  to  the  world — ^that  he 
has  another  wife.  They  have  been  forced 
to  do  it  by  the  church." 

She  moved  her  hands  on  the  table- 
cloth, blindly,  smoothing  out  a  crease 
in  it,  over  and  over,  again  and  again. 
I  put  a  plate  of  food  before  her.  She 
gazed  at  it  blankly.  "You  must  eat 
something,"  I  coaxed.  "You  must  keep 
well  and  strong — ^for  the  baby." 

She  nodded.  "I  must  live  for  him," 
she  said,  more  to  herself  than  to  me.  "I 
must  live  to  tell  him.  They  would  lie  to 
him." 


The  Other  Houae 


65 


And  she  began  to  eat,  slowly,  determin- 
edly, without  a  word,  her  eyes  set,  her 
hands  fumbling. 

She  said  once:  *They  all  lied  to  me.** 
I  did  not  reply.  I  refilled  her  glass  with 
milk  and  gave  it  to  her.  She  took  it, 
looked  down  again  at  her  plate  and  con- 
tinued her  meal. 

She  must  have  been  half  famished.  She 
leaned  back  at  last  and  shut  her  eyes. 
After  a  long  silence  she  said  simply:  "I 
can't  pray.  I  can't  pray  any  more."  I 
put  my  arm  about  her  to  help  her  to  rise. 
She  let  me  lead  her  to  her  room  and  get 
her  into  bed. 


When  I  was  leaving  her,  next  morning, 
I  promised  to  try  to  make  Ruth  under- 
stand, and  forgive,  and  think  more  kindly 
of  her.  "And  I'll  come  back  again,"  I 
said,  "and  tell  you." 

*No,"  she  replied.    "I'll  not  be  here." 

*Where  are  you  going?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I'm  going  away. 
Good-by." 


«i 


«i 


66 


The  Other  House 


I  kissed  her.    Her  lips  were  quite  cold. 

"You  will  write  to  me?"  I  asked. 

She  shook  her  head  again.  "Good-bye." 

She  stood  in  the  doorway  to  watch  me 
go,  and  I  called  back  a  farewell  from  the 
gate,  but  she  did  not  answer.  I  waved  to 
her  at  the  street  comer,  but  she  made  no 
movement  in  response. 

I  have  never  seen  her  since.  The 
silence  of  the  new  polygamy  has  closed 
over  her.  Betrayed,  deserted,  buried— 
not  a  martyr  but  the  innocent  victim  of  a 
sanctified  crime — ^when  I  think  of  her  "I 
can't  pray  any  more,"  as  she  said.  I 
can't  pray  any  more! 


m 


THE  PRIESTS 


Misery  is  a  pain  to  which  the  nerve  of 
suffering  soon  grows  dull.    I  told  Ruth 

of  my  visit  to  B ,  of  how  I  had  called 

on  Esther,  of  what  I  had  seen,  of  what  I 
had  heard  there.  I  tried  to  make  Ruth 
feel  Esther's  wretchedness.  I  tried  to 
make  her  understand  that  Esther  had 
been  almost  as  innocent  a  victim  as  she 
had  herself.  And  poor  Ruth  tried  to  be 
just.  She  admitted  every  plea  that  I 
made,  every  excuse  that  I  offered.  When 
I  told  her  that  she  ought  to  forgive  Esther, 
she  replied:  "I  do.  I  do.  I*m  sorry  for 
her.  I'm  sorry  for  us  all."  But  it  was 
said  with  a  weariness  of  misery  that  made 
it  sound  almost  like  indifference;  and 
when  I  dropped  the  subject,  I  saw  that 
she  was  relieved  to  be  done  with  it. 

67 


The  Ot/urHouie 


Unhappiness  had  not  made  her  hard;  she 
was  too  sensitive  a  spirit  to  be  calloused. 
But  it  had  exhausted  her.  She  was  in 
every  way  less  responsive  than  she  had 
been — ^more  silent — ^passively  gentle  in- 
stead of  quick  in  kindness  and  eager  to 
aid.  She  had  not  needed  the  affliction 
of  grief  to  give  her  fellow-feeling.  Its 
stroke  had  bruised  her.  It  had  left  ha 
numb. 

It  had  aged  her  husband.  When  I  had 
first  known  him,  he  had  been  the  fair- 
haired,  wide-eyed,  idealistic  type  of  re- 
ligious boy,  zealous  with  a  frank  young 
enthusiasm  that  was  appealing  in  its  un- 
sophistication.  As  he  grew  older  his 
success — the  success  of  his  ingenuousness 
— ^gave  him  an  air  of  confidence,  of  smiling 
self-reliance,  that  seemed  the  manner  of  a 
masterful  man.  I  supposed  him  to  be  a 
sane,  compelling  character.  The  disaster 
of  his  polygamous  marriage  quite  broke 
my  faith  in  him.  And,  as  time  went  on, 
I  saw  that  it  had  broken  his  faith  in 
himself. 


The  Other  House 


eo 


At  first  he  carried  himself — at  home,  at 
least — with  a  cowed  and  stubborn  self- 
righteousness;  but  after  Esther's  disap- 
pearance, he  got  the  look  of  a  man  who 
saw  himself  guilty.  At  the  table  he  would 
relapse  into  awkward  silences  and  absent- 
minded  broodings.  I  saw  him  on  the 
streets,  with  none  of  his  old  spirited  as- 
surance in  his  walk.  One  morning,  as  I 
passed  the  o£Bces  of  the  first  presidency 
of  the  church,  he  came  out,  staring  un- 
seeingly,  and  passed  me  by  with  a  queer, 
bewildered  expression  of  face. 

Ruth  and  he  had  been  brought  more 
near  to  each  other  by  the  illness  of  their 
youngest  daughter,  who  had  almost  died 
of  diphtheria  during  the  winter;  they 
had  momentarily  forgotten  their  estrange- 
ment in  their  common  anxiety,  and  prayed 
together  beside  the  sick-bed,  and  en- 
couraged and  consoled  each  other  in  their 
fear.  When  the  little  girl  was  out  of 
danger,  they  did  not  wholly  draw  apart 
again,  and  it  was  Ruth  who  made  clear 


70 


The  Othsr  Emm 


to  me  what  was  going  on  in  her  husband's 
mind. 

He  had  been  talking  to  her.  He  had 
been  telling  her  of  the  incidents  that  had 
led  up  to  his  marriage  with  Esther  Wood- 
ward, and  he  had  apparently  come  to  see 
himself  as  much  betrayed  by  the  priests 
as  Esther  had  been.  He  felt  that  he 
would  never  have  married  her  except  in 
obedience  to  an  exhortation  that  amoimt- 
ed  to  a  command  from  those  "superiors'* 
whom  he  had  spent  his  whole  life  learning 
to  obey.  And  now  they  had  deserted 
him.  They  had  done  nothing  to  aid  or 
justify  either  him  or  the  woman  whom  he 
had  ruined.  They  themselves  had  to  be 
"protected,"  and  to  that  protection  they 
sacrificed  his  plural  wife  and  her  innocent 
child.  They  had  used  every  persuasion, 
every  influence,  every  promise  of  religion, 
to  encourage  a  criminal  renewal  of  polyg- 
amy among  their  people;  and,  at  the 
first  threat  of  the  inevitable  exposure,  they 
had  left  their  victims  to  save  themselves! 


Th$  Other  Houte 


71 


"I  tell  you,"  George  said,  "I've  had  my 
^es  opened/' 

He  was  to  have  them  opened  very  wide 
before  he  saw  the  whole  truth  of  his  con- 
dition. 

He  had  been  very  popular  in  his  dis- 
trict, not  only  with  the  Mormons,  but 
with  the  Gentiles  of  his  acquaintance. 
He  was  a  Democrat  in  a  Republican 
stronghold.  There  was  a  movement  to 
nominate  hiri  on  the  Congressional 
ticket,  and  Ruth  had  encouraged  him  to 
accept  a  career  in  politics,  since  he  had 
lost  heart  for  his  work  in  the  church.  On 
the  morning  that  I  had  seen  him  coming 
from  the  president's  office,  he  had  been 
summoned  there  and  told  that  any  public 
career  was  impossible  for  him.  He  v  is  a. 
"new"  polygamist.  It  would  not  be  safe. 
The  authorities  of  the  Church  were 
denying  the  existence  of  "new"  polyg- 
amy among  their  congregations,  and 
they  could  not  risk  the  exposure  of  the 
plural  marriage  of  a  candidate  for  Con. 


71 


The  Other  House 


gress.  They  forbade  him  to  take  any 
active  part  in  politics.  He  must  remain 
inconspicuous,  obscure. 

Always,  heretofore,  in  yielding  obedi- 
ence to  the  "counsel"  of  his  superiors,  he 
had  felt  himself  a  free  agent,  and  he  had 
been  treated  as  such.  But  this  conmiand 
was  given  to  him  brusquely,  coldly,  and  in 
a  tone  that  scarcely  concealed  the  implied 
threat.  They  told  him  flatly  that  the 
Church  leaders  had  picked  another  man 
for  the  nomination. 

He  was  in  their  power.  They — and 
they  only —  could  protect  him  from  the 
legal  consequences  of  his  bigamy,  by 
their  control  of  the  government  of  the 
State.  "I'm  no  longer  a  free  man,"  he 
told  Ruth.  "I*ma  slave — and  a  coward." 

Later  she  found  him  weeping  in  abject 
helplessness  over  a  letter  from  Esther 
which  read:  "You  ask  me  for  my  for- 
giveness. Perhaps  I  can  give  it  some 
time.  I  can  not  forgive  myself  yet. 
Most  of  all  I  can  not  forgive  those  men 


The  Other  Route 


78 


who  brought  this  shame  on  my  child  and 
me»  and  on  Ruth,  and  on  you.  There  is 
no  place  anywhere  for  me  and  my  boy. 
When  I  changed  my  name  to  'Gray,*  I 
should  have  changed  my  other  name  to 
Hagar.  I  am  Hagar,  and  my  son  is 
Ishmael,  and  the  church  that  I  loved 
and  worked  for  all  my  life  has  driven  me 
out  into  the  desert.    God  help  us!" 

I  began  to  hear  of  other  new  plural 
marriages.  On  a  Relief  Society  trip  to 
the  southern  part  of  the  State  I  spent  a 

night  in  the  home  of  Sbter  E ,  one  of 

our  Scandinavian  Saints.  As  we  sat, 
after  dinner,  in  her  little  sitting-room,  she 
told  me  that  her  eldest  daughter  was  mar- 
ried to  Apostle  T ;  and  she  told  it 

with  as  much  pride  as  a  peasant  woman 
whose  daughter  had  captivated  a  duke. 
I  asked  her  how  this  could  be,  since 

Apostle  T already  had  a  wife  and  the 

manifesto  had  prohibited  him  from  tak- 
ing any  more.  She  looked  at  me  as  if 
she  thought  I  must  be  joking.    When  she 


74 


The  Other  House 


saw  that  I  was  serious,  a  twinkle  showed 
in  her  eyes.  "Veil,"  she  said,  "I  fought 
you  knowed.  T*at  vas  all  yust  to  fool  the 
Yentiles.*'  And  she  said  it  with  the 
naive,  mischievous  cunning  of  a  child. 

One  day  I  met  on  the  street  an  old 
schoolmate  whom  I  had  not  seen  for 
years.  I  asked  her  about  herself — 
whether  she  was  married,  where  she  Um  sd. 
She  replied  so  evasively,  seemed  so  ill  at 
ease  with  me,  treated  me  so  uncordially 
and  left  me  with  such  abruptness,  that  I 
was  as  much  hurt  as  surprised.  I  did 
not  understand  her  manner  until  I  heard 
that  she  was  a  "new  plural"  and  had  two 
children  who  called  her  "Auntie"  without 
knowing  that  she  was  their  mother! 

I  began  to  realize  that  the  restoration 
of  polygamy  was  more  than  the  mere 
personal  tragedy  of  Ruth  Easton  or 
Esther  Woodward  or  any  other  woman. 
It  was  a  community  peril — an  evil  that 
afiFected  all  Mormons,  bound  as  we  are  by 
the  pledges  and  the  laws  of  our  Church — 


The  Other  House 


75 


a  wrong  done  to  all  Gentiles  who  lived 
and  reared  children  among  us.  When  I 
had  first  heard  Ruth's  story,  I  had  thought 
only  of  her  sorrow.  When  I  had  seen 
Esther,  every  other  thought  was  lost  in 
pity  of  her.  But  now  I  foresaw  the  dan- 
ger to  us  all.  Where  should  we  be  at  the 
end  of  such  a  course  of  organized  hy- 
pocrisy and  social  guilt?  We  had  been 
credited,  even  by  our  enemies,  with  being 
sober,  industrious  and  honest.  Honest! 
What  would  become  of  our  honesty,  cor- 
rupted by  this  general  duplicity,  infected 
by  a  policy  of  falsehood  and  community 
dishonor,  betraying  the  trust  reposed  in 
us  by  the  nation  and  by  our  Gentile 
neighbors,  skulking  and  cheating  and 
lying — a  society  of  guilty  Pharisees  and 
canting  shufBers! 

In  the  old  days,  polygamy  had  at  least 
been  practised  openly  and  bravely.  This 
"new**  polygamy  was  nothing  but  treach- 
ery, full  of  horror  and  shame.  I  did  not 
want  to  lose  my  faith  in  the  gospel,  and  I 


76 


The  Other  House 


did  not  want  to  cut  myself  o£F  from  my 
own  people,  whom  I  had  known  and  loved 
all  my  life;  but  I  could  not  find  in  my 
royalty  to  our  faith  any  justification  for 
such  a  fraudulent  perpetuation  of  a 
practise  once  abandoned  by  revelation 
from  God;  and  I  could  not  continue  a 
silent  associate  in  guilt  with  either  the 
authors  or  the  victims  of  this  killing 
perfidy. 

I  tried  to  give  our  leaders  the  b^iefit  of 
the  doubt.  I  tried  to  make  myself  be- 
lieve that  perhaps  they  had  not  authorized 
such  marriages  as  George  Easton's  to 
Esther  Woodward.  I  tried  to  think  that 
there  might  perhaps  be  some  mistake. 
And  I  worried  so  with  hopes  and  fears  and 
doubts  and  disbeliefs  that  I  could  no 
longer  enjoy  the  meetings  and  the  church 
work  that  had  always  been  a  quiet 
pleasure  to  me.  I  came  to  the  point 
where  any  certainty  would  be  better  than 
my  fretful  half-knowledge.  I  resolved 
to  learn  the  truth. 


The  Other  Howe 


Tt 


I  had  the  right  to  ask  it.  My  great- 
grandfather had  died  for  the  faith  at 
Nauvoo,  and  through  every  succeeding 
generation  our  family  had  been  devoted 
Saints.  I  myself,  for  years,  had  given 
fully  of  my  money,  time  and  strength 
to  the  cause. 

And  there  was  one  man  among  our 
leaders  to  whom  I  could  go  to  ask  the 
truth  as  I  might  go  to  my  own  father.  I 
had  not  had  more  than  a  passing  word 
with  him  for  years,  but  I  had  known  him 
from  my  childhood;  he  had  been  my 
father's  dearest  friend;  he  had  visited  us 
constantly  in  my  girlhood;  and  once,  in 
the  days  of  the  persecution,  when  he  was 
in  hiding  "on  the  underground,"  he  had 
found  a  refuge  in  our  house  from  the 
Federal  oflScers  of  the  law  who  were  seek- 
ing to  arrest  him  on  a  charge  of  "unlawful 
cohabitation."  (I  shall  never  forget  my 
delight  at  the  sense  of  mystery  and  the 
importance  that  I  felt  when  we  sat  with 
locked  doors  and  drawn  blinds,  as  if  the 
house  were  deserted.) 


78 


The  Other  House 


I  went  to  him  now,  confident  of  his 
honesty  and  assured  that  he  would  an- 
swer my  questions  with  frankness.  I 
shall  not  write  his  name.  It  is  enough  to 
say  that  I  knew  the  practise  of  polygamy 
could  not  have  been  resumed  withoui  his 
official  knowledge  and  his  secret  consent. 

He  greeted  me  with  a  paternal  kindli- 
ness, asked  me  about  "the  folks*'  and 
o£Fered  me  a  chair  near  him,  beside  his 
desk.  It  was  in  his  office.  The  door 
had  been  closed  on  us. 

I  reminded  him  of  the  time  when  he 
had  hidden  in  our  house,  and  I  told  him 
how  proud  I  had  been  to  help  protect  one 
of  the  brethren  from  persecution.  He 
laughed  and  recalled  incidents  of  that 
visit — even  one  of  me  singing,  with  much 
fire,  "I'll  Be  a  Little  Mormon." 

He  said,  smilingly:  "I  hope  you're 
as  zealous  a  Latter  Day  Saint  now  as  you 
were  then." 

"I  want  to  be,  President ,"  I  re- 
plied.    "I  try  to  be."  And  then,  because 


The  Other  House 


70 


I  did  not  know  how  to  broach  the  subject, 
I  blurted  out:  "I've  come  to  get  you  to 
strengthen  my  faith  that  all  is  well  in 
Zion." 

My  earnestness  evidently  startled  him. 
"Why!"  he  said.  "Sister  Martha!  Surely 
you*re  not  weakening  in  the  faith?" 

"No,"  I  answered.  "I  believe  the  gos- 
pel's true.  But  sometimes  people  may 
have  the  truth  and  yet  fall  into  error.  I've 
heard  some  things  lately  that  horrified 
me. 

He  frowned,  perplexed.  I  looked  down 
at  his  desk-top. 

"I*ve  always  been  loyal  to  our  Church 
and  our  people,"  I  went  on.  "In  the  old 
days,  when  they  announced  bravely  their 
belief  in  polygamy  and  their  intention  to 
practise  it,  my  heart  was  with  them.  I 
knew  they  were  sincere — ready  to  endure 
imprisonment  and  even  death  for  their 
belief.  But  when  the  manifesto  was 
given,  I  was  glad  both  personally  and  for 
our  people — ^for  whom  it  meant  peace —  an 


80 


The  Other  House 


honorable  peace.  I  have  heard  lately  that 
polygamy  has  been  resumed — that  those 
who  entered  it  years  ago  are  still  living  in 
polygamy — that  new  plural  marriages  are 
being  performed  by  sanction  of  the 
Church." 

I  paused.  He  was  silent.  When  I 
looked  up,  I  found  no  kindly  light  in  his 
eyes.    They  were  cold  and  baffling. 

"Well,"  he  said  slowly,  coolly,  "go 
on.    What  more  have  you  to  say?" 

"Why!"  I  stammered.    "Is— is  it  true?" 

"And  why  do  you  want  to  know?  What 
differences  does  it  make  to  you?" 

That  tone  of  hostility  stung  me.  I 
answered  in  a  voice  almost  as  hard  as  his 
own:  "I  am  a  Latter  Day  Saint.  The 
affairs  of  the  Church  are  my  affairs  and 
those  of  every  other  member  of  the 
Church.  I'm  a  part  of  it.  If  its  pledges 
to  the  nation  are  being  broken " 

"Where  have  you  obtained  your  in- 
formation?" he  asked. 

"I'm  not  at  liberty  to  tell  you,"  I  an- 


The  Other  House 


81 


swered,  for  I  was  determined  not  to  be- 
tray Ruth  and  George. 

"And  you  have  no  evidence  to  oflFer? 
You*re  easily  disturbed,  Sister  Anderson, 
if  you're  so  excited  by  rumors  so  vague 
and  so  imreiiable  that  you  can't  even  tell 
where  they  come  from.  Have  you  talked 
of  these  matters  to  others?" 

I  told  him  I  had  done  very  little  talking. 

His  manner  softened  somewhat.  "Now 
see  here,  Sister  Martha,"  he  said,  "you 
mustn't  lose  faith  in  the  Church — and  its 
leaders — on  account  of  every  lying  rumor 
that  is  started  by  our  enemies.  It's  true 
that  we  still  believe  in  the  rightfulness  of 
polygamy,  but  its  practise  was  suspended 
by  the  command  of  the  Lord  until  the 
world — and  particularly  this  nation — is 
purer  and  more  fit  to  receive  the  truth. 
They're  too  wicked,  and  our  people  have 
been  too  weak,  for  us  to  make  them  accept 
it.  But  we're  growing  stronger."  There 
was  a  gleam  in  his  eyes.  "When  the  time 
comes  we  shall  save  the  world  by  the  same 


Tht  Other  House 


glorious  principle  that  it  has  scorned  and 
rejected."  He  idded  hastily:  "But  the 
time  hasn't  come  yet.  We  made  promises 
and  we're  keeping  them.  There  have 
been  no  recent  plural  marriages.  I  know 
of  none  since  1890.  If  any  of  the  Saints 
have  been  determined  to  fulfil  the  law  of 
celestial  marriage,  and  have  gone  into 
polygamy,  they  have  done  it  on  their  per- 
sonal responsibility." 

I  could  have  wept.  I  knew  that  he  was 
lying — even  he! — and  to  me! 

"One  thing  I  want  to  warn  you  of,"  he 
contmued  smugly,  "and  that  is  the  ten- 
dency to  look  for  error  in  others  rather 
than  in  yourself.  Never  mind  about  the 
affairs  of  your  brothers  and  sisters.  At- 
tend faithfully  to  your  own  duties.  Obey 
the  priesthood,  and  above  all,  never 
set  yourself  up  in  judgment  over  the 
Lord's  anointed.  Never  raise  your  voice 
against  the  sacred  principle  of  polygamy, 
which  your  own  grandfather  practised  so 
faithfully.   If  you  do,  you  cast  the  stain  of 


Ths  Other  Houte 


88 


dishonor  upon  him,  and  upon  your  own 
name  and  birth." 

He  rose.  The  interview  was  over.  As 
I  went  out,  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  could 
be  heard  in  the  anteroom:  "I  hope  you'll 
be  back  to  see  me  soon,  Sister  Anderson, 
to  say  that  youVe  been  mistaken — and 
to  tell  me  you've  recovered  your  faith." 

I  made  no  reply.  There  was  no  reply 
possible  with  the  indignant  despair  in  my 
heart. 

Next  day  I  resigned  my  position  as 
secretary  of  the  Young  Ladies*  Associa- 
tion. I  ceased  all  my  activity  in  church 
work.  I  even  discontinued  my  attend- 
ance at  meetings.  I  did  not  give  up  my 
faith  in  the  principles  of  our  Church,  but 
I  was  "out  of  harmony"  with  the  leaders 
and  their  policy.  I  could  not  be  true  to 
myself  and  "sustain"  them. 

Then  our  "block  teachers"  called  on 
me.  Once  each  month  every  Mormon 
family  is  visited  by  these  ward  workers,  to 
ask  whether  all  the  members  of  the  house- 


MICROCOPY   RESOIUTION  TEST  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1^ 


tti 

Li 
Its 

IS 

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84 


The  Other  Home 


hold  are  fulfilling  their  religious  duties; 
whether  they  are  paying  the  tithing; 
whether  they  attend  meetings  and  hold 
private  and  family  prayers;  whether  they 
have  hard  feelings  toward  any  of  their 
brethren  or  sisters;  and  finally  whether 
they  sustain  the  priesthood.  With  us 
they  had  dropped  these  questions,  know- 
ing us  and  our  way  of  life  so  well.  But  on 
this  evening  there  was  a  change  in  their 
manner.  As  soon  as  I  met  them  at  the 
door,  I  knew  that  they  had  come  to  take 
up  a  "labor"  with  me. 

After  a  moment  or  two  of  talk  on  indif- 
ferent topics,  the  senior  teacher.  Brother 
Mackey — a  thin-lipped,  stem  man — said 
challengingly:  "I've  missed  you  at  meet- 
ing lately.  Sister  Anderson.  Have  you  or 
any  of  your  family  been  sick?" 

His  companion.  Brother  Cross,  a  little 
Englishman,  sat  twirling  his  thumbs, 
drawing  in  his  breath  occasionally  with  a 
queer  sucking  sound,  and  watching  me. 

"No,"  I  answered,  "I  haven't  been  to 
meeting  just  lately." 


The  Other  House 


85 


«i 


*I'm  surprised.  Sister  Anderson!"  he 
said.  "We  thought  you  were  one  of  our 
best  workers.  Have  you  been  attending 
to  your  duties?  I  suppose  you  pay  a  full 
tithing?" 

I  told  him  that  I  had  always  done  so. 

He  asked  about  private  and  family 
prayers,  and  I  assured  him  that  they  were 
not  neglected  in  my  home. 

He  asked  about  my  feelings  toward  my 
brethren  and  sisters.  I  told  him  I  be- 
lieved I  had  no  personal  enmity  toward 
any  one. 

At  last  he  asked  me  whether  I  sustained 
the  priesthood  as  servants  of  God,  and 
how  I  felt  in  the  gospel.  I  replied:  "I 
sustain  all  the  servants  of  God  who  are 
faithful  to  His  commands  and  do  His  will. 
But  I  have  heard  some  strange  things,  and 
I  cannot  believe  that  all  who  hold  the 
priesthood  are  faithful  servants." 

Brother  Cross  stopped  twirling  his 
thumbs.  His  eyebrows  rose  on  his  nar- 
row forehead.    He  opened  his  mouth  to 


86 


The  Other  House 


*f 


*» 


speak,  but  Brother  Mackey  put  in  quickly: 
"Just  what  do  you  mean,  Sister  Anderson? 

"I  mean  this  matter  of  new  polygamy. 

They  looked  at  me  in  uneasy  surprise. 
"But  polygamy  is  not  being  practL<!ed 
now.** 

"I  know  that  it  is  being  practised  now — 
that  there  is  polygamous  living  in  the  old 
cases  and  that  there  are  new  plural  mar- 
riages. It*s  against  the  maniifesto.  It*s 
against  the  law,  and  it*s  traitorous  to  all 
our  pledges  to  the  Government." 

"Don't    you    believe    in    polygamy?" 
Brother  Mackey  asked.     "Don't  you  be- 
lieve that    it  was  revealed  to  Joseph 
Smith  by  God  Himself?" 

"Brother  Mackey,"  I  answered,  "it 
doesn't  make  any  difference  whether  I 
believe  in  polygamy  or  not.  I  believe 
that  Joseph  Smith  was  sincere,  and  that 
most  of  our  people  who  used  to  prac- 
tise it  were  sincere.  But  the  manifesto 
was  a  revelation,  too,  and  it  forbade  polyg- 
amy.  It  should  be  as  binding  as  the  other 


The  Other  House 


87 


revelations.  Besides,  we  gave  our  word  to 
the  Government — and  got  our  property 
back — and  our  citizenship — and  were  giv- 
en Statehood — on  the  understanding  and 
the  promise  that  polygamy  had  ceased." 

Brother  Cross  showed  a  shocked  agita- 
tion. "  Hi  don*t  believe  there  be  any  new 
cases,"  he  said.  "But  if  there  be,  hit's 
none  o'  my  business.  I  attend  to  my 
duties  and  trust  the  Prophet  and  *is 
apostles  to  manage  the  Church.  God  will 
never  hallow  us  to  be  led  astray,  look  ye." 

Brother  Mackey's  lips  were  in  a  hard, 
straight  line.  "What  makes  you  think 
polygamy  is  being  practised?" 

"Well,  for  one  case,  you  know  that 

Brother  M *3  second  wife  has  had  three 

children  since  the  manifesto,  don't  you?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  he  cried. 

*But  you  live  next  door  to  her." 

'I  know  nothing  of  her  private  affairs. 
/  am  not  curious  about  my  neighbors. 
How  do  you  know  they're  hers?  Maybe 
she  adopted  them.' 


"1 


««i 


»» 


88 


The  Other  House 


This  was  too  obviously  insincere  to 
answer. 

"Then,"  I  said,  "there's  that  poor 
Swedish  girl.  Sister  E .  She's  a  plu- 
ral wife  and  married  to  a  man  old  enough 
to  be  her  grandfather.  When  the  mani- 
festo was  issued,  ^e  was  not  yet  in  her 
teens." 

"Now,  *owever  do  you  know  she's 
married?"  asked  Brother  Cross,  with  su- 
perhuman adroitness.  "Did  you  see  'er 
married?" 

"No,"  I  retorted.  "And  I  didn't  see 
you  and  your  wife  married.  Bat  I  sin- 
cerely trust  you  were?" 

We  were  all  getting  excited.  Brother 
Mackey  made  an  effort  to  attain  a  sooth- 
ing tone.  "But,"  he  insinuated,  "I  don't 
see  why  all  this  should  affect  you.  Sister 
Anderson — even  if  it's  true.  You  should 
attend  to  your  duties.  You  believe  in  the 
gospel.    That's  enough  for  any  on«." 

"Yes,"  I  argued,  "but  the  very  founda- 
tion of  our  Church  is  a  belief  that  our  lead- 


The  Other  House 


89 


ers  are  inspired — that  they  receive  revela- 
tions from  God  to  guide  us.  Truth  is 
surely  the  greatest  attribute  of  God. 
Then  how  can  our  leaders  be  His  faithful 
servant '  when  they  teach  and  practise  de- 
ceit, and  disregard  the  revelation  given  to 
President  Woodruff?" 

Brother  Mackey  cried,  in  a  pallid  anger: 
"I  warn  you  that  you  are  on  the  road  to 
apostasy.  You  set  up  your  puny  judg- 
ment against  the  Lord's  anointed.  Look 
into  your  soul  and  see  whether  some  se- 
cret sin  of  your  own  has  not  made  you  lose 
faith.   That  is  the  case  with  all  apostates. " 

He  glared  at  me  with  a  cold  malignity. 
I  might  have  expected  this  accusation  of 
sin,  but  I  had  not.  I  rose  to  face  him  with 
what  self-control  I  could.  "You  have  al- 
ways been  welcome  in  my  house  before," 
I  said.  "^'  -v  I  wish  you  to  go — and 
never  entei  it  again!"  I  could  not  trust 
my  voice  further.  He  made  an  oracular 
pulpit  gesture,  as  if  he  were  about  to 
speak.  I  turned  and  hurried  from  the 
room. 


00 


The  Other  House 


It  was  shortly  after  this  that  the  con- 
test came  up  against  the  seating  of  Apos- 
tle Smoot  in  the  United  States  Senate. 
At  the  time  of  his  election  our  people  had 
boasted  that  one  of  the  Lord's  servants 
had  been  chosen  to  go  to  Washington  to 
give  inspired  aid  in  the  affairs  of  the  na- 
tion; and  many  had  declared  that  this  was 
the  beginning  of  the  triumph  which  Joseph 
Smith  had  predicted  when  he  said  that 
the  Latter  Day  Saints  should  one  day  rule 
the  United  States.  There  was  surprisingly 
little  interest  shown  by  the  mass  of  our 
people  in  the  contest. 

The  Church  newspaper,  the  Desert 
News,  did  not  publish  the  official  testi- 
mony. It  gave  only  carefully  expurgated 
accounts  of  the  case.    It  was  in  a  '  < 

paper  that  I  read  the  Associate 
despatches  recounting  the  official  pi .  ,  -  jd- 
ings.     And  there  I  learned,  for  the  first 
time,  from  the  testimony  of  our  own  lead- 
ers, into  what  depths  we  had  fallen. 

I  read  of  dozens  of  people  who  were  liv- 


••'.t 


The  Other  House 


91 


ing  in  plural  marriage.  I  read  the  testi- 
mony of  Brother  Reynolds  that  though  his 
own  daughter  had  two  children  he  did  not 
know  whether  or  not  she  was  married — 
and  he  made  no  inquiries!    I  read  the 

testimony  of  Margaret  G ,  the  new 

plural  wife  of  one  of  the  wealthiest  men  in 
the  Mormon  Church.  She  went  to  Wash- 
ington alone;  she  sat  up  all  night  in  a  wait- 
ing-room, because  she  knew  no  one  and 
had  no  place  to  go;  and,  to  protect  the 
villainous  coward  at  home  in  Utah,  she 
took  dishonor  on  herself  and  her  young 
child,  by  testifying  that  she  had  no  hus- 
band. I  learned  that  t.*-"  highest  men  in 
our  Church  schools,  the  gi  des  and  exem- 
plars of  Morman  youth,  are  polygamists 
I  read  the  testimony,  forced  from  Joseph 
F.  Smith  himself,  that  since  the  manifesto 
he  had  lived  with  his  five  wives  and  had 
eleven  children  by  them.  And  these  men 
came  home  and  boa.sted  of  how  they  had 
"confounded  our  enemies!" 
It  filled  me  with  loathing  and  repulsion. 


n 


The  Other  Houte 


Kt»i 


Since  then  I  have  more  than  ever  with- 
drawn myself  from  Church  circles.  I  do 
not  consider  myself  an  apostate  from  the 
creed,  but  I  can  not  countenance  what  I 
believe  to  be  a  monstrous  infamy.  I  have 
not  risen  in  the  Tabernacle  to  protest 
against  the  leaders  who  have  forced  us 
into  this  horror.  Perhaps,  if  I  were  a  man, 
I  should  do  so.  I  like  to  think  I  should. 
But  being  a  woman,  I  shrink  from  the 
notoriety — and  from  the  sorrow  and  re- 
puted disgrace  that  it  would  bring  on  my 
nearest  and  dearest. 

And  what  good  would  it  do?  One  man 
has  accused  a  church  officer  of  new  plural 
marriage  and  protested  against  his  hold- 
ing his  high  position,  '^he  protestant  ha? 
been  disfellowshipped.  He  has  suffered 
financial  disaster  and  social  ostracism. 

Another  man — the  bravest  and  ablest 
among  the  Latter  Day  Saints — ^wrote  a 
public  protest  againt  new  polygamy  and 
against  church  interference  in  politics 
and  business.    He  attacked  no  tenet  of 


The  Other  Howe 


08 


the  faith,  but  he  was  excommunicated 
from  the  church,  nevertheless,  for  "un- 
christianlike  conduct,"  and  he  has  been 
persecuted  ever  since  with  that  malignity 
of  which  our  priests  are  capable. 

Perhaps  I  shall  not  be  allow  to  main- 
tain my  present  attitude  of  outward 
neutrality.  I,  too,  may  be  accused  of 
unchristianlike  conduct.  If  I  am,  my 
faith  in  our  cardinal  principles  will  avail 
me  nothing.  I  shall  be  an  outcast  from 
the  church  in  which  I  was  bom  and  reared 
— estranged  from  all  my  old  friends  and 
ostracised  by  many  of  them. 

It  is  the  price  we  pay,  in  Utah,  for 
daring  to  think. 

O  America!  America!  The  land  of  the 
free. 


BOOKS  TO  OWINJ 

The  Bible  for  Creed 
Shakespear » for  Literature 
Blackstor    for  Law 
UNDER  7  :E  prophet  IN  Ittmj 
for  Polygamy 

Every  Man  one  Wife 
Every  Woman  one  Husband 
Every  Child  his  Birthright 
UNDER  THE  PROPHET  IN  UTAH 

kills  Polygamy 

What  is  a  Plural  Wife? 

What  is  Her  Child? 

What  is  The  Other  House? 

UNDER  THE  PROPHET  IN  UTAH 

tells,  and  touches   the  soul  with 
divin**  pity  and  '^uman  hope. 

BIGAMY     ND  POLYGAMY 

Does  God  teadi.  or  United  States  wfnk 
at.  Bigamy  and  Polygamy?  The  Bible 
te;iche8  to  tionor  thy  father  and  thy 
ni»  ^er.  Sh^ll  the  offspring  of  bigamy  or 
Polygamy  honor  his  father  and  mother  ? 

UNDER  THE  PROPHET  IN  UTAH 

tells  the  tale;  its  analysis  is  clear  and  con- 
ymcmg,  concise  aad  cutting,  overwhelm- 
mg  and  pathetic. 


u 


99 


BMd  what  tb* 

New  York  Times 

Bays  of 

Under  the  Propbet  in  Utali. 

Extracts  from  the  review  of  December  17,  1911. 

No  grimmer  picture  hss  ever  been  pre- 
sented than  that  of  the  Mormon  wife, 
not  the  Mormon  wife  of  the  old  happy 
days  before  the  United  States  Qovemment 
interrcned,  bat  the  Mormon  wife  who 
has  become  "sesled"  since  the  law  made 
her  "sealing"  a  crime.  Before  1890  her 
mother  lived  in  plaral  marriage  withoat 
sin.  Nowadays  both  the  Church  and  the 
Bute  have  made  plarml  marriage  a  crime ; 
bat  the  Church  stealthily  conniTcs  st  it. 
The  Church  presents  a  ssnctimonlons  face 
to  the  State,  and  says  that  plural  marriage 
Is  no  longer  permitted,  while  it  waves 
its  hand  behind  its  back  to  the  libertine 
and  tells  him  that  is  hat  it  is  saying  to 
the  State  is  aU  a  bluff. 

Under  the  old  communism  there  was 
not  a  poor  man  in  Utah,  now  the  alms* 
bouses  are  full,  and  the  Mormon  Bishop 
reaches  even  in  there  to  collect  his  tithe. 
What  wss  the  greatest  experiment  in 
communism  the  world  ever  saw — for  the 
tithes  were  devoted  to  the  support  of  the 
eommunltv,  and  hence  there  was  not  a 
poor  man*  in  Utsh— has  become  a  great 
engine  for  the  emolument  of  the  hier- 
archy, and  that  hierarchy  is  resolved  inte 
the  person  of  the  millionaire  Prophet, 

Joseph  F-  Smith. 

•       •••••• 

Mr.  CsanoD  made  a  wise  choice  of  a 

eollaborator  for  Mr.  O'HIggins  has  a  eom- 

pelltng  way.of  stating  Mr.  Cannon's  facta 

—so  compelling  that  it  interferes  with 

your  rest. 


9188 


